


And You Will Have Your Hearts’ Desire

by laughingmistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Am I Doing Tags Right, Angst, Blood, Canon Era, Creeping Dread, F/M, Horror/Supernatural, M/M, Other, Rare Pairings, Violence, and if you see something i really should have warned you about tell me and i'll add it, evil creature is evil, evil creature is sexy, first fic, i can't tag the pairings when half of them are plot points, i honestly have not mapped this out at all so if anything pops up i'll add it, it better be or i am missing the mark, necessary but horrible cliffhanger, non-canon compliant, occasional epic run-on sentences used to hopefully excellent dramatic effect, patron-minette are the terrors that flap in the night, suicidal self sacrifice, supernatural non-con, this is a scary story, water/drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-27 10:02:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16216742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingmistress/pseuds/laughingmistress
Summary: His grandmére had spoken of such things, when he was a lad. But now it seemed that perhaps she’d not been trying to scare him for nothing, that perhaps she had known very well what she was speaking of. Perhaps he should have paid more attention.Because something was standing across the room from Grantaire, leaning too casually against the wall. Something that screamed “unnatural”, setting his nerves on edge, even in the middle of the busy cafe. Something that had followed him over and down the hill from the vineyard at Montmartre, and that something was watching him, with eyes that did not blink, not nearly as often as they ought.He refilled his glass, and hoped for his friends to arrive, soon.





	1. The Thing that Follows

**Author's Note:**

> So, here it is: the first chapter of the first fic I have ever posted on AO3. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope I can managed to wrangle the rest of my ideas into shape to get out the next chapter fairly soon.  
> This thing happened because of my seeing three or four very different things pop up back to back on my tumblr, and for some reason they all wanted to life together in my head. One was a rare pair challenge--I wanted the least likely pairing I could think up, but then the only way I could figure it ever happening involved SERIOUSLY BAD THINGS HAPPENING. Then this terrifying thing about cryptids, and cornfield creatures. Also reading a bunch of jehanparnasse fic by mardisoir.  
> also a shoutout to adorablecrab for her (also adorable) picture of Grantaire holding a bunch of sunflowers, which I swear I had no intention whatsoever of referencing and then it just happened.
> 
> Oh. No one is proofing this but me, so my apologies for any gaffes that make it past me!

The man, the _thing,_ was not human.

He was not sure exactly when he realized it. Sometimes, to be very fair, it took him a moment or two to notice things, at least, it did when he was deep in his cups. But right now, he was stone cold sober, and he was certain: It was no man.

It was human- _like,_ surely. Arms, legs, a head, hair. Eyes, but this was where something first made him question. The eyes were beautiful, fringed with long lashes, pretty as a girl's. But dark. Dark as a starless night, as spilled ink, as sin. So dark, one couldn’t see where the iris ended and the pupil began, and although they shone, something about them was flat. He thought of a crocodile, although he wasn’t sure why, and he’d never actually seen one, outside of paintings. There was something cold blooded in those eyes, like a creature that had come from under a stone, that was it, that was what sent his mind to reptiles. Well, that, and the smile. Lips full, and red, and reminding him uncomfortably of another pair of lips he’d studied when no one was watching, but behind them, an impression of far too many teeth, too bright, and too sharp. The mouth would have nearly called for kissing, were it not for those crocodile’s teeth.

The rest was easier, because it was less wrong, somehow. Thick waves of glossy hair, the colour of a raven’s wing, carelessly romantic. Fair skin. Tall, and slender, and enchantingly graceful. Again, almost too tall, and too slender, but that was hardly to be noted. It had long fingered hands, and these were what kept pulling his thoughts away from disturbingly sharp teeth. The hands of a pianist, or an artist. Maybe a surgeon? Or perhaps, he thought, darkly, one who had other skills with a knife. It was, he thought, handsome.

He was certain it had followed him here.

He was certain of where he had picked it up, too, although he didn’t quite want to lend it credence. He felt the creeping of the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as he watched the man, the _thing,_ he was sure now it was not a man, but he did not want to believe, even as he knew he did. He had believed in only one thing until this evening, and heartily wished he could stop believing in this second through sheer force of will. Things did not follow through the streets for miles because you made the mistake of meeting their eyes in the twilight gloom on the hillside, especially when you had not realized, at first, that those gleaming things in the fallow field were even eyes at all. It was only two dancing sparks, off in the dried vines. And then, when he glanced behind, alongside the road, just where he’d stood the moment before, man-high, and closer. And then, keeping pace with him, never more than twenty steps behind, and with never a single echo of a boot on the cobbles. Two darkly glittering pinpricks that kept on following, and the shadows pulling tight around a figure growing more solidly real, and his own heartbeat pounding a warning in his head: Wrong, wrong, _wrong._

His grandmére had spoken of such things, when he was a lad. She had always seemed so strangely serious about it all, but then, she was from the North, and people there were well known to be superstitious. She spoke of stones to be avoided, and holding one’s breath passing the churchyard, and a dozen other things to freeze the spines of small boys. But right now, he could hear her voice at his ear, as if it were yesterday, and not the end of a harvest fifteen years gone, or maybe more: “There is a lonely thing lives in the fields, after the vines are dry. Never go into a field at night, Rémy, love. If you think you see someone there, don’t look at them. If you think they follow, run.” He remembered, too, his father, telling her to shut up that nonsense, that she was a ridiculous old woman, that’d he’d not have her turning his son’s head with fairy-stories and ghost twaddle. But now it seemed that perhaps she’d not been trying to scare him for nothing, that perhaps she had known very well what she was speaking of. Perhaps he should have paid more attention.

Because _something_ was standing across the room from Grantaire, leaning too casually against the wall. Something that screamed “unnatural”, setting his nerves on edge, even in the middle of the busy cafe. Something that had followed him over and down the hill from the vineyard at Montmartre, and that  _something_ was watching him, with eyes that did not blink, not nearly as often as they ought.

He refilled his glass, and hoped for his friends to arrive, soon. 

He’d come earlier than usual, with his worrisome companion following so close at his heels, and had he been free of said company, he might not have minded the time alone, to have a drink or two at his leisure, to take a little dinner, perhaps, even to flirt with the tired looking girl who had brought the bottle at his wave. He’d have pulled a stub of charcoal out from the pocket of his waistcoat, and a scrap of paper from the pocket of his coat, and tried to sketch an impression of shadows on a hillside, but instead, the shadow was up, and walking, and it stood in the far corner—

He looked up from his glass. Keeping his head down had seemed the wisest strategy to start with. Surely he should not acknowledge that he was even aware of the thing, but suddenly he was struck by the thought that it might not be wise to look away from it either, for fear it might close yet another distance too quickly for nature, and next be sitting on his chest, the way a cat might as it steals the breath from a babe in a cradle. It was not quite that bad, but it was bad enough. The thing was standing at his very table, only that bit of wood between them. Off balance, and ringed with wine stains, it would not provide much of a shield, and did not make him feel at all safer.

“Might I sit?” The voice was low, a purr. Soft, and dark, like a velvet glove over a clawed hand. It dropped a cold stone into the pit of his stomach, because it both attracted and repelled. Grantaire could feel it in his body, two warring urges. One natural, to be as far away as he could, to stand, to push over the cafe table and bolt, although he knew that this thing, whatever it was, could be on him before he’d finished a step, pulling him down like a wolf on a hare. The other struck deeper, and rang false, a pull deep in his belly that felt like desire, something that wanted him to roll over and show throat. To yield himself. It promised something sweet and warm and wonderful, but he knew beyond doubt that the promise was a lie. He took his time in answering, deliberately studying the thing’s face for some hint of its intent. There was none.

“I daresay I could not stop you, monsieur, unless I am gravely mistaken.” He hesitated. “You have followed me here.” The thing that looked like a man, but was not, inclined its head, the barest impression of a nod. “From the vineyard, at the back of _la butte._ ” Another half nod. Grantaire paused again, and took a breath. Yes, he was still breathing. He was awake, and it was not just a dream. “Why?”

The thing was slow to respond, blinking at him, almost lazily. It folded itself down into the chair opposite him, angular grace, then smiled small and slow, and instead of a crocodile, now it put him in mind of a fox. It was more accurate; the thing had a long face, a pointed chin, a sharp nose, and the curl of its lips was vulpine. It was a beautiful and feral thing, and every line of it spoke of its skill as a hunter. If he weren’t so scared of it, he’d have wanted to draw it, or take it to bed, or both. As it was, he simply knew: show no weakness. So he waited for it to speak with a patience that he knew none of his friends would have credited him with.

“You were interesting. I saw you looking at the sunflowers.”

Grantaire remembered. They were dried up husks of things, with rattling seeds, and petals gone pale and thin as paper, or the air in a cold autumn morning. They were sad, and lovely, and their time was over, and for some reason, that had called out to him. He’d tried a quick sketch on the back of a letter from his father, given up, and pitched the lot into a tangle of vines like the trash it was. He tried to fix the flowers in his mind, instead, in case he later caught an urge to paint, although, really, it had been such a long time since that had last happened, after the debacle of his apprenticeship—

He shook himself back to attention. “I’d not have thought that was of any particular interest to anyone, monsieur.” The thing looked him directly in his eye.

“They meant something more when you looked at them. They made you…” It seemed to think about the word. “…melancholy.”

Grantaire scoffed, at least so much as one could when speaking to a thing that was not a man. “Many things make me melancholic. The world itself makes me so. It signifies nothing.”

“It signifies much.” It huffed, and its lip curled, and it was for a moment the very picture of a beautiful and insouciant young man. “They are like you. They turn toward the sun. And you have a sun you orbit as well, or I have never seen a man who suffered in love.”

He blood ran cold, and his face felt strangely stiff.

“You have not then, for I have no love. I am very much alone.” He paused, and the thing did not speak, but also did not look away from his face. “Are you much disappointed?”

“I am not. I will have much, because of you.”

“What will you have from me?”

“Blood. Fear. Pleasure. The joy of the hunt.”

“You mean to kill me. Do you not?

“I do not.”

“How, then, will you get those things?”

“The blood will not be yours, and the hunt will be of my own design, Rémy Grantaire.”

He sucked in a breath. “How do you--?”

“Your father’s letter, addressed to you. The picture. Your little gift to me, left in the vines.” It smiled and it was heartbreakingly sweet, this lonely creature, and he longed for a moment to cup its cheek in his hand, but then he remembered that the teeth were still too sharp and too many, and his hand only twitched, and gripped the bottle more tightly. Then the thing’s hand was moving instead, and it was both too fast and too slow and it brushed one finger across his heart. It smiled again, like a promise. “I will never stray far from your door, and you will have your heart’s desire.”

Grantaire felt his heart thump once, hard, under his ribs, and under the hand of the thing that still looked both too much and not enough like a beautiful young man. _Do not believe this thing,_ he told himself.  _It cannot give you want you want. It will lie. It will cheat, and twist you in knots, and use you to its own ends._  He thought again of the stories his grandmére told. When a bird hits your window, someone you know is about to die. True names have power. If it follows, run.

“You know my name. I should know yours.”

“Montparnasse.”

It was the name of a cemetery, and not this thing, and Grantaire now believed in three things.

He was going to die.


	2. Both Bait and Trap Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was surprised when Jean Prouvaire pulled him out of the café within two minutes of his arrival, lips compressed into a thin, angry line, and pushed him into the alley alongside the Musain. Although when he really thought about it, perhaps he shouldn’t have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the longest run-on sentence i have ever written and i'm not even a bit sorry because it's on purpose and i love it.

He was surprised when Jean Prouvaire pulled him out of the café within two minutes of his arrival, lips compressed into a thin, angry line, and pushed him into the alley alongside the Musain. Although when he really thought about it, perhaps he shouldn’t have been. He hadn’t been back to the café in two weeks, nor had he put his nose in at their other usual haunt, the Corinthe, and he had, in point of fact, been steadfastly avoiding any chance of seeing his friends since that night, the night when the thing that called itself Montparnase had followed him to their meeting.

Part of the surprise was at the strength with which the little poet took his elbow, propelling him out the door and around the corner, and the force with which his back hit the stone wall. You forgot, with Prouvaire, because they were slight, so very delicate seeming, and so soft-spoken. They seemed almost shy, and then something threatened the peace of someone they cared for or something weaker than they, and the gentle breeze turned to a furious gale, a thing of wiry muscle and intrepid spirit. It was not a thing you would guess, looking at this little sparrow of a person, with their bright, round eyes, and fine, strawberry-coloured hair in a loose plait, with their medieval “h”, and terrible sense of fashion.

More of the surprise was because he had no idea how he had displeased them when he’d only just arrived. But then, when he thought back to the _last_ time he’d been there, with the _thing,_ he realized that he didn’t recall Jehan saying anything then, either. And that, somehow, made things less surprising.

 

Their group was called _Les Amis de l’ABC,_ a pun that predated his wandering upstairs from the main room one evening, bored and more than only half drunk, and stayed, and then returned for reasons that had little to do with his passion for their cause, and everything to do with a thing he was afraid to even _think_ of in the presence of the mysterious and terrifying thing that had said it would get him his hearts’ desire. It felt dangerous to let his mind go near what that might mean, to get such a thing, in such a way.

Of a surety, the creature would rot the goodness out of the heart of whatever it touched, wouldn’t it? He’d thought on such things as the rest of the group had filtered into the room over an hour’s time, keeping his silence, and drinking, and watching this _Montparnasse_ from under his eyelashes, wary, while it only seemed to grow more and more comfortable in its new surroundings. It was pretty, and well dressed, its somber clothes finer than his own, its cravat more neatly knotted ( _And how did it manage that trick_ , he wondered), and it seemed to Grantaire as if it were somehow both bait and a trap, all wrapped up together into one package.

Bossuet and Joly arrived first, and together, as they always were, these days, since they now shared a room, and a mistress, and god knew how much more besides. Grantaire had his suspicions, and they made him smile, other nights. They came right to his table, instantly and insatiably curious to make the acquaintance of his “new friend”. They didn’t seem to find anything the slightest bit off-putting about Montparnasse, and were soon falling all over themselves in the effort to outdo one another’s jokes in front of this new companion, and Montparnasse making strange puns right along with them. Grantaire wanted to warn them off, but for all he knew, it might take only one word from his lips to rouse something dark, to destroy them, all three. He had the feeling it was too late for warnings anyhow, that it had been the moment they'd entered the room and set eyes on the thing. So he kept quiet, and they laughed at that too, for he was normally anything but.

Bahorel came in with Courfeyrac, who was giving him hell about his waistcoat. His beloved scarlet, it seemed, had been torn in a scuffle the day prior, and so been relinquished to the tender mercies of the little seamstress he was currently bedding, leaving him sporting a violet affair with a delicate motif of swirling vines and clustered grapes. It was not unfashionable, but it would, truthfully, have better suited a man of Courfeyrac’s stature. Bahorel’s broad shoulders and strong chest strained both the fabric and whatever fancy of amusing juxtaposition led to his choice of such a dainty pattern for his own boisterous person in the first place.  Bahorel was in the midst of re-attaching Courfeyrac’s much loathed particle out of pique at this affront, when he spotted Montparnasse. He grinned.

 “Capital, R! You’ve found us someone new to have some fun with, I see!” And he _winked_ at the thing, in a shockingly forward manner. Grantaire found that his mouth had fallen slightly open at this, and he shut it so quickly that he was astonished no one heard his teeth clash together as he did so. His astonishment only grew as Feuilly eventually joined them, tired from work and stretching so that his joints popped, pulling off his cap for a moment to ruffle a hand through his copper curls. He was as warmly welcoming of the stranger in their midst as he would be of any one, and more, joining the conversation as though they were old friends. Montparnasse said he knew nothing of Poland, and it seemed as though the workingman might cheerfully drag it off to a corner to tell it all he knew, except that the others collectively groaned and rolled eyes, and refused to relinquish his company. Bossuet threw a bit of bread at the man and said there was no  _knead_ to steal Montparnasse away, and Joly groaned, declaring this a dreadful stretch for a _pain-_ ful pun, and the thingsmiled like a fox as they all continued to chatter quite happily. Grantaire was simply relieved that the thing had not managed to use the invitation of a individual _tête-à-tête_ to single his first man out from the herd and begin the culling.

Grantaire was deeply unsettled. Unsettled was a gross understatement. He kept a tight hold on his bottle, that his hand would not betray him with shaking. The thing was wrong. Terrible, and wrong. It was clear to his eyes, and yet, the others seemed glad of its presence among them, not the least discomfited. Too glad, almost, and it suddenly struck him that all their usual caution of strangers in their midst, of possible informants and police spies, seemed to have fallen along the wayside, dropped as carelessly as he’d thrown aside the bit of paper that had started him walking the path that led him to this moment. Courfeyrac grinned at something the creature said, and on its other side, Bahorel shuffled his chair closer, and whispered something to it, eyes dancing. It threw back it’s head with a ringing, silvery laugh that set chills running along Grantaire’s spine, even as he felt the odd urge to say something amusing himself, so as to hear that music again. He suddenly wondered, nonsensically, if they were even seeing the same thing sitting there at the table with them, or if it somehow appeared as something different to each beholder. He would swear that Bahorel was flirting with it, as if it were a new girl who’d caught his fancy. It was charming them all, before his eyes.

He looked up again, as Enjolras and Combeferre entered, papers and books tucked under their elbows, heads bowed close in a quiet discussion of some point of contention, with Jean Prouvaire following close at their heels. Enjolras was wearing the jacket that Grantaire liked best on him, one the colour of a stormy sea. It brought out the startling blue of his eyes, but tonight Grantaire hardly noticed. Combeferre looked up first, and stopped, as if he’d lost his line of thought completely, adjusted his glasses, blinking before giving a small smile to the new arrival. Enjolras looked at him, surprised, before turning his attention to where they all sat, the thing right at the centre of their group as though it was possessed of its own dark gravity, and they had been pulled to its orbit. Enjolras looked at the thing, and then at Grantaire, and frowned.

Grantaire felt a swell of relief at that familiar frown, one that bordered on amusement at his own fear of the thing. He had worried over nothing. Of _course._ Of course,  _Enjolras_ could see that something was wrong! He was no regular man, no, not at all like Grantaire, he was too strong of will to be so easily fooled by whatever glamour the thing was using to play upon the others. _He_ would know what to do, any moment his bright voice would ring out with a command for them to catch it, to bind it somehow, and Grantaire would be free of whatever strange nightmare reality he had stumbled into.

“Who is this? Another of your friends, Courfeyrac?” Oh, yes, he would play it subtly, would Enjolras. He would set the creature off guard with his usual charm, then catch it out, as it had caught out the rest of them, and it would see that it was not the only one here that was capable of being terrible--

Combeferre laughed, pulling him from his little fantasy. “Not another like the last one? I couldn’t take another lecture on Bonaparte…”

“Not mine, I’m afraid! No, he came with Grantaire, believe it or not. And he’s certainly no Pontmercy!” At Courfeyracs’ words, Enjolras started, taking his eyes from the thing, and looking directly at Grantaire.

Grantaire, who could scarcely deal with his direct attention on a normal day, who would speak nonsense in a steady stream to keep a single true word from betraying himself, sure that his unruly affections must be as obvious, somehow, as a blotch of India ink spilt onto a pristine white page, and likely as unwelcome a surprise. Someone like Enjolras would not even consider such a thing, not with someone like Grantaire, who was so often drunken, so contrary in all things, a towering disappointment. But right now, those blue eyes were regarding him with an entirely different sort of surprise.  Surprised, but pleasantly so, finally, not disappointed, and if it had been any other night and he had done something to deserve a look like that, it would have set him to walking an inch above the floor for at least the next three days. As it was, he still felt a pang of happiness, even while knowing he had not done anything to merit that look, followed by a disgust at himself, that he was a creature that could feel even a half-heartbeat of pleasure, knowing it was stolen. A lie.

Grantaire knew a moment of perfect despair.

The thing unfolded itself from its seat, standing to offer its pale, long-fingered, unnatural hand in greeting, as if it were truly there to discuss the future of the people, _les abaissés_ , and was not, in fact, some monstrous imposter, a great dark spider spinning out a web to catch them all. “I am called Montparnasse.”

It smiled, the gleam of a steel trap.

Enjolras smiled back, with a strange, soft expression that Grantaire had not ever seen on him before, wished he was not seeing now.

Enjolras was taking its hand, and Grantaire was falling into a dark, deep pit, and any minute now they would throw the first handful of dirt over him, because his Apollo was only human after all, in spite of the golden halo the lamps made of his hair, not able to see through the dark veil cast over all their eyes, and the evil thing was touching his idol’s hand, and there was no one going to fix this disaster and he would still die, he believed that to his core, now, and that was fine for him but he’d be damned if he let it charm his friends away under the hill, taking them down along with his miserable stupid self, Enjolras least of all, and without knowing how he did so he was up and on his feet and had Montparnasse’s elbow tight in his hand, though his skin crawled at touching the thing on purpose, and he was pulling it toward the door, and it felt as slow as running in a nightmare when the air itself clings onto you like jealousy and chokes your breath and pulls the tears up in your eyes and thank Mary and Joseph and the sweet baby Jesus and all the Saints, because it was actually letting him draw it away, was laughing and saying that he was far too drunk and calling back to the men of the ABC that they would have to talk another time, that he was so charmed to meet them all at last, and he looked forward to a next meeting that was only coming over Grantaire's dead body and they were going out the door, past Jean Prouvaire who had not moved one step since crossing the threshold, not a single one, and said no word, and who pressed themselves away into the wall as Grantaire and the thing went out, and whose eyes were big and round and maybe angry and maybe scared—

 

He remembered the look Jehan had given them that night as they had passed so close to them. Little Jehan Prouvaire, who was a romantic, a dreamer, and who some nights spilled out fine words like they were riches, with a gentle good humour. Who carried funny things in their pockets, like holed snails’ shells, and the tiny skulls of birds, iron horseshoe nails and twists of paper with sea salt inside, and a red ribbon tied around their left wrist, always. He remembered the way their eyes had followed Montparnasse, and he realized why that one moment had stayed with him at the same time that Jehan pushed him against the wall and asked the question, voice carrying that anger and fear that had been true, and not a thing imagined.

“Where is it _,_ Grantaire? What have you done?”

Jehan _knew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ticking off all the standard boxes early and often with mentions of Bahorel's scarlet waistcoat (and a gratuitous reference to yet more artwork by Debora Cabral because who can avoid that other waistcoat), some terrible puns, pining!Grantaire, and Jehan, who knows everything. Because of course he does. Also: terrible/charming charming/terrible juxtaposition because it tickles me.
> 
> While it's not a canon era thing, I'm trying to avoid gendered pronouns for Jehan, because I've gotten used to that and I rather like it, and I just don't see any good reason why not.
> 
> Things I learned today: anyone who writes anything includes all the amis in groups, and frequently, should get a medal because it is astonishingly difficult and i intend to avoid it like the plague in future.
> 
> I have never written so much, so fast, in my life--already working on Chapter 3, which is a good sign for more updates. Still not proof read by anyone but me, so please try to ignore if i have let slip any errors in spelling, grammar, or generalised stupidity.


	3. The Debt It Owes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan knew, and thank Christ, because it meant he wasn’t alone in knowing. He could almost have sobbed in relief.

Jehan knew, and thank Christ, because it meant he wasn’t alone in knowing. He could almost have sobbed in relief, but knew better than to show that sort of weakness, not here, in an alley, with who knows what dark eyes on them that he could not sense. He gripped Jehan’s arm in his fingers, and maybe hard enough to bruise, the grip of a man who was on the edge of drowning.

“You saw then, you truly saw it? Jehan—“ He looked round, aware he must appear a madman, paranoid, and the picture not aided by the bruised purple of sleepless nights beneath his eyes, the dark stubble on his cheek, because his hands shook so these past two mornings that he was scared to wield the razor. Although he couldn’t say why, truly, for Montparnasse had done nothing wrong, not yet, not aside from _existing_ , which was clearly very, very wrong indeed. He realized that he ought to say something more, for Jehan had their head cocked to the side, birdlike, waiting for him to go on. “I don’t know where it is? It goes about by itself now, at night—“

Jehan inhaled through their nose, clearly impatient. “But what did you _do,_ Grantaire?”

“Nothing! I didn’t—“ He caught his voice raising, stopped, took a shaking breath, and lowered it to a hissing whisper. “I don’t know what I did, what called it, but I know the mistake I made. I threw aside the wrong scrap of paper, and it trailed me out of a fallow field, Jehan, after sunset, and it’s not a man, and it has my _name.”_

 _“Merde.”_  It was surprisingly eloquent, somehow, but Jehan nearly always was. They released the grip that had kept him pinned against the wall, and took a step away, glancing skyward as if expecting some answer to this riddle to drop from the heavens. Jehan looked at him again, with a hint of pity. “I know it’s not a man. It looks like a man, or it does to my eye. It’s beautiful. But it’s wrong.”

Grantaire laughed, and there was no humour in it. “The wrongest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jehan nodded. “Montparnasse.” Their expression was serious, grim as if they were already at his funeral. “They talked about it all night, after you left.” Grantaire felt ill, just thinking of it. Of how they’d all looked at the thing so adoringly, seeking to please it, and hated himself for bringing it among them. Then he had a thought.

“But not you. How?” Prouvaire lifted their left arm slightly, and there it was, as always, the red ribbon knotted at their wrist. Grantaire goggled at him. “That...Really? The thing enchants the entire room, and you’re immune because of—that.” It seemed so simple a thing, to keep away a being that still could almost seduce _him_ were he not careful, and him knowing full well that it was some sort of monster.

“Yes.” They sighed. “Just because a thing has been called superstition, it does not follow that it was never true, once, or isn’t still, somewhere. Red threads, knotted or woven into cloth. Cold iron. Salt.” They counted off the list on the fingers of one hand. “Running water.” Grantaire made a sound in the back of his throat, shaking his head.

“Not that last. It followed me from Montmartre to Musain, we crossed the Seine. By Pont au Change, and Pont St Michel.”

Now it was the poet’s turn to shake his head. “That’s because it’s not moored to its place anymore. If it hadn’t stolen your name, you’d have lost it the first time you crossed a running culvert. Assuming it hadn’t caught you first.” Grantaire shuddered, some future person walking atop his grave. The thing _had_ caught him, though, hadn’t it? He couldn't get away from it. But Jehan went on. “It’s tied itself to you, now.  So it might cross with you, but it cannot cross away _from_ you. Even now, it’s probably somewhere between the river and—“ They broke off, considering.

“That open drain, a bit south of here. The little stream, off to the west.” He laughed, still not really amused. “And probably the damned water features in the Jardin du Luxembourg.”

Jehan nodded in agreement. “Maybe not even that far. There are buried streams everywhere in Paris, they might still count. There are rules for these things.”

Grantaire thought about this. “So it’s been close, then, even when it’s been disappearing at night? It doesn’t sleep,” He added, helpfully. The first few nights, it had stayed right in his room, watching him, silent as the grave, and he’d not slept either. Once he’d fallen asleep in sheer exhaustion, and waked to find it curled at the foot of his bed, atop the coverlet, as though it were a gigantic cat in a man’s body. But it still didn’t sleep, just watched him with those eerie eyes that didn’t blink quite often enough for comfort. Sometimes it talked in riddles. He tried not to talk back, for after they spoke too long he would find himself talking in strange circles as well, or standing too close to the thing for comfort, and no idea how he'd got there. It had been a relief when, after those first three nights, it decided it was bored, and began taking itself off without him to do god knows what after night fell.

“I didn’t think it would. Sleep, I mean. But the first thing, the important thing, is to discover what it wants.”

Grantaire looked at Jehan. “Who knows what a thing like that wants? Prouvaire, I was certain it was going to kill me, that very first night. But then it said it wouldn’t, that it had…I don’t know. A hunt of its own design, that’s what it said.”

Jehan looked right back, narrowing their eyes. “Every word, Grantaire. Every word it has said to you, whether you believe it is of consequence or not. I need to know, if we are to have any hope of ridding you of this thing.”

He thought back. That night ran strangely in his mind, some of it painfully sharp, burned into the black behind his eyelids. That look Enjolras had given it, as he took its hand—Grantaire shook his head. Other parts were hazy with fear as thick as a roomful of smoke. But he remembered the first conversation, the one before the others had arrived, clearly enough.

“It said it took note because I suffered in love. I told it that it was mistaken, that I have no love, but it did not seem as if it believed?” Jehan made a soft tsk-ing at the back of their throat, but did not interrupt. “It talked in metaphor—that I was a sunflower, that I had a sun I turn toward, some nonsense like that. That it was going to…have much from me, that’s it, because I’d given it a gift—the name? It was going to have the hunt, like I said. And…blood. Fear. But that it didn’t mean to kill me, that it could get it all elsewhere. That it would stay close to me, until I had my hearts’ desire—“ Jehan made a small, sharp sound, one that reminded Grantaire of the mewl a kitten might make if you trod on its tail. “What?”

Prouvaire worried at their lower lip with their teeth, weighing this, eyes downcast. Then looked up at him again. “I need to think on this. It--I think it’s a sort of a debt, one that it owes you. But I’m not sure of the way out, quite, and I must be certain. Things like this, they make much of fair payment of debts, although their idea of what makes a suitable and even trade can…leave much to be desired.”

Grantaire felt as though he were missing something. “But what’s the trade?”

“That’s the thing.” Jehan’s face was worried. “I think it’s only half complete. And that is both very bad, and very good. Look. You gave it your name—“

“Not on purpose!”

“But still you gave it. And so it is free of the place where it was tethered before. But that has left it dependent on you, indebted. Where you go, Montparnasse follows, or at least, stays close.”

Grantaire made a small hum of agreement, their words had a ring of _rightness_ about them. “ Not to stray from my door, it said…”

“Mm. Its greatest wish was to escape it's binding, and you gave it that, unwitting. And so, it says it will bring you your hearts’ desire. And then, the debt would be settled, for you would both have the thing you prized the most, and it would be trulyfree in the world.”

“Wait.” Grantaire blinked. His vision seemed to be swimming, and there was a humming in his ears. No. No, that was not a thing that could be allowed to happen, Montparnasse free to do what it would, beyond all limits. It had few enough already. And then, the thing he wanted the most—

Jehan put a hand on his arm.

“Grantaire. Breathe.” He had not realized he was holding his breath, exhaled, and inhaled. “I do not want to assume too much. I need to think about this. I may be able to find a way round it. For now, there are two important things. Firstly: Montparnasse must not know that you are looking for an answer. So we tell no one, and change nothing. Not unless he is truly creating an immediate danger.”

He came very near to bursting into hysterical laughter.

“Jehan, every minute spent with it feels like immediate danger! But…“ He considered it. What had the creature actually _done? "_ No,you are right.That that will work, it doesn’t want to harm me, God alone knows why. Beyond the fact that it’s a horror by it’s very existence, it’s like having a cat. It's quiet, it stares, it even brings me gifts.” Also, it seemed that every mouse and rat in the building had vacated the premises the minute the thing had arrived. Even the pigeons, which were practically feathered rats gone airborne to his mind, had ceased perching over his window and shitting onto the sill. He nearly appreciated it.

“Good Lord, Grantaire, it’s _not_ a cat! What  _gifts_? You don’t mean a dead sparrow in your slipper, surely!” Jehan looked perfectly scandalized, in a way that would be funny, were this not all in deadly earnest, and he found himself feeling suddenly oddly cross that they would take exception to an offhand comment about it being his pet. He needed the ludicrous, or he might well go mad.

“No, and nothing bigger than a sparrow, either! It’s been little trinkets, that’s all—a silk handkerchief on the table that I know I did not purchase, a pair of gold coins in my bedsheets, that was actually a good one! A single earring with gluepaste jewels, pretty, but useless, unless I take up a new life as a South Sea pirate.” Jehan gave him an incredulous look.

“And where do you think he finds these things?”

“ I assume he steals them. Doors are not nearly the bar one might hope to the thing. Montparnasse doesn’t quite squeeze itself into rooms through keyholes, but I’m fairly sure it climbed up a sheer stone wall to come in at my window, two nights back.”

“Hmph.” The sound spoke volumes. Jehan did not approve of his flippancy. “Mind those gifts, Grantaire. Were I you, I would inspect them closely, and get rid of them with haste.” Clearly this was to be the last word on that particular topic. “The second thing. It is the more important, if my suspicions are correct. It must not find out what it is that you want, deep in your secret heart. If it finds out, it _will_ try to deliver, and on succeeding…well. It would be free to do what it wanted. I doubt it appreciates that you are making it wait, when if you would only tell it…” They trailed off. “It is very likely you would only be the first to die.”

Grantaire swallowed. He expected nothing less than death of this, and that was not what he feared, not anymore. His throat was very dry. “My hearts’ desire is not a thing that I have ever said aloud to a soul. Montparnasse will not find out. And even were he to do so, it is a thing that will never be, that it cannot possibly give. Magic it might have, but it cannot work a miracle, force a rose to grow from a stone. But I will not tell it, and no one else knows.”

Jehan looked at him. “That is not so.”

Grantaire got a new bad feeling. “I am not lying to you, Jean Prouvaire.”

“I know you are not. But while I will not say it, I believe that I could guess your hearts’ desire, and it would not take me more than one attempt. I daresay I am not the only one, among your friends, who could do so.”

He and Prouvaire looked at each other. Grantaire looked away first.

“Jehan, I need you to do something. If you can.”

“If I can, if it’s possible.”

“You must keep it away from here. Musain. It can’t pass these doors. It’s dangerous—“ Jean Prouvaire is already nodding. They know this, as they knew the rest. They seem to know everything, and Grantaire wonders that he had never realized this before, how much Jehan knows and sees.

“It will not enter here, among your friends. I can do that, keep it out. and it will not be able to follow you into that room. Tonight, after they’ve all gone, I will arrange it.” They paused. “I cannot ward anything more specific. It would be like hanging a sign to draw its eye where you would wish it least to light. You understand?”

He understood. One safe room. The rest of the world was at the edge of the abyss, but he would have a safe room, and what he needed protected would be safe within its four walls. Secret to his heart, still, so long as they did not point it out, make it seem that any within their circle was more closely guarded than the rest. “Alright then. You will ward our meeting place. And I will try to keep the thing—close. Let it think there is a chance of my giving in eventually, that it will not grow too impatient, and seek other means of learning what it wants to know.” The very notion made his knees weak under him. No one of sound mind would have trusted Grantaire with such a responsibility. This was not a task for him, but he had no choice. He would not have another caught in this snare with him, not for anything, not for his hearts’ own desire. That flame would gutter and die as well, if the thing caught hold of it, a candle flickering its last under a bell jar, and him unable to break the glass. Jean frowned at him, concerned.

“Have a care for yourself, Grantaire. It is danger.”

“I know it. It is not myself I fear for.”

Jehan nodded at this, solemn, and laid a hand on his arm. It was their left, with the scarlet ribbon. They both looked at it, and then at each other, and then Prouvaire withdrew the hand, stepped away. “If anything changes, if it does anything…” They half smiled, aware that this was a mad statement, “… _more_ alarming, if you have the slightest suspicion that Montparnasse has learned anything, or might have begun to influence you, somehow, you must come and find me, right away.” Grantaire nodded, then swallowed.

 “Thank you, mon ami. However this game plays out, I am glad of your aid.”

Jehan simply flushed a bit pink at the thanks, then turned and walked away, back into the café. Grantaire watched them go, and thought they looked altogether too fragile and mortal to be tasked with bearing the light of his only hopes through such a long night as this threatened to be. Then he, too, turned and walked away, homeward, to wait for the thing to return to him again on its silent fox-feet, with another of its cats’ gifts.

Perversely, he wished it might be a mouse without a head.

That way, he need not wonder where it had come from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a load of freaking dialogue. I hope the atmosphere doesn't disappear with all this talking? Chapter four is on deck already though and...yeah. Seriously messed up things are afoot.
> 
> Still only me both writing and proofing this, and at this point my eyes are crossing, so any mistakes are best politely ignored unless completely egregious.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. A Mouse Without A Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where did you get this?”  
> “Why do you not like my gifts? I only want to make you happy.”  
> It was not an answer.
> 
> Things take a turn, and it is Very Bad Indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you read the tags for this story? Things get Real Bad in this chapter. This is your CW for non-con (No graphic description, i prefer metaphors), vomit, and some blood.  
> I am super nervous about this chapter, just gonna go ahead and post it, and hope for the best.

For most of another week, it seemed their plan was working well enough.

It turned out a man could only live at certain pitch of terror for a short time before most anything became normal, or near enough to it. Grantaire almost began to feel as if he simply had an eccentric and highly unsettling roommate. Once or twice a friend came by to check in on him, and he sent them off, quickly, before the thing could draw them inside. He was sure that they must all be talking about how he had finally gone right over the edge, although perhaps not. Courfeyrac had looked past him at Montparnasse, then lifted one eloquent eyebrow and laughed and said some nonsense, _it’s fine, dear boy, just don’t go doing it in the street and frightening the horses_ , before Grantaire had shoved him out the door. The implication made him feel a bit queasy, he was happier with them assuming he’d snapped. He wished it was safe to just bind them all up in red ribbons, but then, that might have made everything worse, when the thing eventually discovered that they were all untouchable, might make it obvious that one of them was the key to the lock that held it. Besides, he was unreliable, troublesome and prone to fancy, while Jehan was regarded eccentric at best, if with a great deal of affection. Why should any of them believe this fairy story run amok, when the only reason he believed it himself was the thing that kept returning to his side, that never strayed farther than the nearest stream? He kept to home, venturing out only to return with a little food, and bottles upon bottles of wine. It was easier to deal with Montparnasse when he was drunk enough to be a bit foolhardy. Once, he tried to punch it, simply to see if it was possible. And it laughed, with its strange, silver laugh, as Grantaire cradled his cracked knuckles, for it was gone from the place it had occupied with such speed that he had driven his fist directly into the wall behind.

In the daytimes, when he was awake, it would begin talking to him from out of the clear air, speaking of things that made no sense but filled Grantaire with a low sense of creeping dread, sometimes for hours, only to suddenly fall silent and unnaturally still, following him with its eyes.

He couldn’t read the looks it gave him, its regard a shifting thing, and slippery, like the golden film of fat that floated on a pot of hot chicken broth, only darker. Like blood, running between cobblestones, wet and black in the dark. One moment it was the gaze of a predator, all shifting muscle and twitching tail in the long grass, preparing to pounce. Then something softer, but hotter, the hungry look of a lover. The impression of appetite was the same. One afternoon he tried to draw it, sitting on the sill of his window in one of those silent times, watching him. He was curious how it would react to his watching it back. Montparnasse only seemed faintly amused, something twitching at the corner of its mouth, which made it seem more like a real man for a moment. Grantaire was sure he had captured its likeness, a terrible and beautiful thing, a glossy dark raven that did not belong in the room where it perched, rather should be croaking from a field of rye. He was sure it was the start of a masterwork, a play of light and shadows surpassing anything he’d ever done. When he’d looked at the page later, it was black scribble. A deep smudge of charcoal, and a sharp line of white through it.

At least he’d gotten the teeth.

It still went out at night, almost the minute the light was gone from the sky. It grew restless as the shadows lengthened, in a way that made Grantaire only too glad to see it go, and returned in the mornings, early. Grantaire found that he woke soon after it returned, somehow aware of its presence in the room. It still brought gifts, and he turned them over in his hands, inspecting them for any sign of something _wrong_ , or more wrong than before, wondered if it had made friends of its own. If it had, he was sure he would not wish to make their acquaintance. After the thing left in the evening, he would start a fire in the grate, burn the gifts to ash, and throw the ashes out his window to the mercy of the chilly autumn winds. That chore done, he would end his own evening by swallowing down wine until everything in his head was muffled, and he was dragged down into sleep, not caring about the sour mouth he would have in the morning, nor the aching head, because he could no longer close his eyes on his own. He was possibly smothering, stuck in this room, drowning in darkness and in drink, but it was working. Montparnasse still had no notion of his hearts’ desire, and surely, clever Jean Prouvaire would come up with something soon, perhaps a magic word, from such a poet.

It was working, until it wasn’t.

 

Grantaire couldn’t wake up, wrapped in a soft fuzzy fog of wine with sleep sucking at him still, pulling him back down, as if into a warm bath, and he wasn’t sure he wished to wake anyway, was giving in, happy to sink deeper down, farther in, because the dream was so marvelous, and he had never known a lover like this in his waking life. He didn’t know if he was over them, or if they were over him, if it were a man or a woman in his arms, kissing him, tongues touching, and their mouth on him, elsewhere— _dear God—_ and offering him _more_ , and he took them, or they took him, or somehow both at once, deeper, and there was sweet honey in his mouth, and the richness of meat, bloody-rare, and the soft creamy inside of a medlar. A thick tantalizing scent filled his nostils, tickling the back of his throat, the loamy underside of autumn leaves, the musk of deer and other wild things, and there was a rushing in his ears, and now his heart would surely burst as the wave rolled over him, and stars exploded behind his eyes, and he heard himself cry out, wordless and ragged at the end of it, and he lay there, awake now, but eyes shut, panting, in a warm glow, dazed.

A hand stroked his curls, long-fingered and cold. His breath caught.

He did not want to open his eyes, and did it anyway. Montparnasse was in his bed, watching him with dark eyes, close as a whisper. He felt the bile rising in his throat, barely made it as far as the basin before his stomach emptied itself: of wine, of water, of the memory of food. It still watched, as he subsided into dry heaving, gasping after breath, and pressed himself against the farthest wall. Its voice, when it came, was soft and gentle, a quiet calling thing.

“You did not like it?”

Grantaire fought against a bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to burst out of him.

“You did. I know you did.”

God help him, he had, but he hadn’t _known_ …but what did he know now, standing there lost in his soiled nightshirt in the grey gloom of early morning, sticky, and chilled by his own cooling sweat? Was it real, what had just happened? A dream? Some of each? Montparnasse, in either case, and he wanted to be ill all over again, and knew he was shaking. “Keep away from me.”

The thing in his bed looked lonely, and so heartbreakingly sad that he longed to go to it, to stoke its cheek and assure it that, No, all was well, it had been _wonderful_ and—he caught himself in horror. What was it doingto him? “I only wish to make you pleased. You were pleased. You were _beautiful_.” His mind did not want to work, could not decide what he should do. The creature smiled at him, slow and deliberate, lips red like Eve’s apple. “Only imagine, Rémy Grantaire. Imagine how much better, were I your hearts’ desire.” It was too much, he was about to swoon like a girl. His voice sounded weak and thin to his own ear.

“No…”

“Tell me, and they will be yours, and this will be as nothing, nothing to what you should have with them—“

 _“You will not have his name from me!”_  Grantaire was pulling on clothes, suddenly, hardly knowing what he was doing. Out, out, he had to be out of this room, away from this thing, this terrifying thing that wanted what he must not, would not, would never, ever give it. The thing was speaking to him still, but his ears were stopped up with the humming of bees. He sat on the floor, pulling on his boots, half blind in his desperate need to be gone. In the second one, the right, his toes struck something hard and round, and he reached in a hand to pull it out.

A child’s toy, a wooden ball, and sticky with jam where his fingers held it. He looked at the creature.

“Where did you get this?”

“Why do you not like my gifts? I only want to make you happy.”

It was not an answer, and Grantaire looked back down at the ball, turning it over in his hands, and froze. The sticky redness on his fingertips was not jam, no, nothing like jam, nothing half so innocent as that and his mind was jabbering at him, incoherent.

The ball clattered to the floor, was rolling, and Grantaire was out the door, leaving the second boot behind.

 

Jean Prouvaire. He had to find Jean Prouvaire, now, and his breath was sobbing in his chest as he ran, his bare foot bleeding into the worn wood of the stairs as he climbed them, and finally, finally, he was at Jehan’s door, pounding upon it below the ridiculous knot of red ribbon and rowan berries that served as decoration, and he now knew, protection. He was yelling something, he knew not what, and then the door came open, leaving his fist hanging in the empty air. His mouth opened, but nothing came out, and then Jehan was drawing him inside with cool, gentle hands.

He found himself sat in a deep plush chair, a garish knit blanket thrown over his legs, a cup of some sort of tea that smelled of herbs was being pressed into his hands, and Jehan was curled up, kittenlike, on a tufted pouf at his knee, trying off a bandage around his foot and watching him with concerned eyes. He was also being watched by the trio of skulls sat upon the mantle, but somehow they held no menace at all, not after everything else.

“Can you tell me what’s happened?” Jehan sounded wary, as if they were not sure they would get a response.

Grantaire swallowed, hard.

“It…I cannot stay in the room with it anymore. It is…growing impatient, I think.”

Jehan nodded. They did not seem surprised. “What has it done, Grantaire? You look as if you’ve passed through hell.” 

He moved his arm and set aside the dainty teacup, the liquid within untouched, careful to keep a steady hand, fearing he might drop it to shatter into a million cutting bits. He looked at his hand for a while, unthinking, unseeing, then wiped it against his leg, although the smear upon his fingertips had already been washed away. “It brought me another gift. A, a child’s toy, a wooden ball. I though the sticky on it was jam, but it was _blood_ , Jehan, someone’s blood! It’s been out there nights, killing—“

“Grantaire.” Jehan spoke firmly, but still gently, cutting him off before he could decend into complete hysteria. “Stop. You cannot know what it has done, only what it has brought you.” He was certain his suspicions were not wrong in the slightest, but the rising tide of panic ebbed somewhat. Jehan was still looking at him, watching his face as if they could see something written there. “There’s something else.”

Grantaire could not look him in the face. He wasn’t sure he could look _himself_ in the face, were he before a mirror. He was stewing in shame. He couldn’t tell them. Could not. But a single detail left unspoken…He made himself look up, and focused on Jehan’s eyebrows, and said what he hoped would explain enough, for he could not tell more. “I…thought I dreamed. I woke and it was in my bed.”

Jehan hissed through their teeth, almost recoiling. “Did..?”

“Don’t ask me to say more, Jehan, I cannot.” He almost stopped there, then relented, just a little. “I do not know if it was real, or a dream. I pray it was a dream.” It did not matter either way, he felt just as foul. Jean Prouvaire got up, walked across the room, and stared into their skulls for a time before turning to face him again. Their face was set, determined.

“This cannot be allowed to go on. I will not allow it. Whatever we thought before, we are changing this plan.” Grantaire nodded, simply grateful that someone else still had a mind that worked. “We shall return to your flat. So long as Montparnasse is not there, we will ward against its return. By then the others should be making their way to Musain, and we will meet them there, and ward them as well.”

“Jehan—“ Grantaire laughed, once, mirthlessly. “They are men of science, and the law. They will never believe.” Jehan lifted their chin, pointed and stubborn, and stepped toward him with a bit of red thread, reaching to take his hand.

“We shall make them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know if I am more proud of or horrified by myself right now. I have never written anything involving sex in a story before, so if you think it's poorly done, there's my excuse. I will say this probably owes a fair bit to all the Anne Rice I read in high school.
> 
> Courfeyrac's witticism is paraphrased from the mouth of Beatrice Stella Tanner Campbell AKA Mrs Patrick Campbell (9 February 1865 – 10 April 1940) the first actress to play Eliza Doolittle, in George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. "Does it really matter what these affectionate people do — so long as they don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses!" was her response when someone asked her opinion of two men she knew who were thought to be lovers, clearly a great lady.
> 
> Medlar: This is a type of fruit most people are no longer familiar with that was once fairly common. It isn't edible until it appears to be completely rotten, but the inside is rich and custardy, like pudding, or so I'm told. I haven't had the chance to try one.
> 
> I am terrified of the possible response to this chapter? Writer nerves.


	5. Interlude: Ravenous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a new dawn, and it was done with waiting, done with games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one night? What?  
> Here's the deal: This one is a special gift to you all, a short little extra something to keep you thinking about What Comes Next for a while, because the next chapter or two are probably gonna take a bit longer to write.
> 
> Enjoy. Or whatever you want to call the feeling you get from this nightmare! ;)

It was a new dawn, and it was done with waiting, done with games.

There was a burning thing in Montparnasse. A flame that burned hotter, higher, became a raging unquenchable furnace as the _man_ refused it, not yielding up his hearts’ desire, not for either fear or want. It let him go, let him flee into the early morning, he could not run anywhere that he would not be found, not until Montparnasse delivered on the debt, and then _it_ would be free _,_ free to pay what else was owed, now, the price of keeping Montparnasse chained. The man would pay it, and pay it, spill it out in terror and tears and blood until there was nothing left, not one thing of what he’d held dear in this world, not even his very breath. It would toy with him, play like a cat with a tiny stupid mouse, right until it chose its moment, let its jaws snap and savoured the   taste—

It was _ravenous._

It would find the hearts’ desire and it would find them _today,_ whosoever they might be, and then it would let that man dangle before infuriating, stubborn Rémy Grantaire until he was driven half mad. And then he would take the bait, _oh yes,_ the golden thing within the snare, and Montparnasse would slip its leash—

 

It went seeking the friends and found the café Musain was warded against it with scarlet and salt. It could not pass into that room up the stair, the room with all the other men, and it knew.

_He_ had been there, that first night. The hearts’ desire, or one that knew who he was, and within the afternoon, it would know what they knew, know the man.

 

_It knew._

Montparnasse knew now and it was hunting the streets as the sun dropped toward the horizon, and it needed to find him faster, now, before he went up the stair to that room that could not be entered. It was calling out, silently, to the other things, the ones it had met on other nights, the ones that were bound to this sorry little scrap of Paris, and for the joy of watching the humans dance they would give him extra eyes with which to seek 

Brujon

Babet

Claquesous

thing of many faces, all of the masks, to call out in the dark with the voice of your mother, your lover, your friend and you never knowing to what thing you spoke until it was too late

 

The last of the sunlight made the young man’s hair into a golden glory, a corona tipped in flame to match the burning thing inside of Montparnasse as it fell into step beside him, and smiled, and Enjolras smiled back.

Sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When i first came up with this story, i intended there to be a whole Patron-Minette chapter, but somehow Montparnasse has loomed so large that they've been reduced to a run on thing that is not even a true sentence? 
> 
> Obviously THINGS happen in this chapter, and just as obviously, we don't get to see them. I absolutely promise you that you'll find out how Montparnasse learned the big secret in the next chapter.  
> This battle ain't over yet, kids. Not by a long shot. 
> 
> There are so many stories that say time goes differently among the folk, this bizarrely quick interlude is completely a nod to that tradition.


	6. Pearls on A String

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan and Grantaire have work to do, and R learns that with enough pearls of wisdom, one can string a necklace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs this chapter: Enchantment Renders All Consent Dubious and also Short Vague Suicidal Notion
> 
> Also one utterly redonkulous reference to the musical, for which my apologies.

Jehan disappeared briefly and arranged things with their concierge, so that Grantaire was able to bathe, thank god, and even convinced him to eat a little before the two of them returned to his flat. He had his own boot, and one of the poets’ ridiculous house slippers on his other foot, and walked with a funny up-and-down gait along the way, feeling a bit like Cendrillon, half-shod after her own hasty exit. Montparnasse, for a mercy, was not there, and so they turned to the business of cleaning up the wreckage of the morning. Supposedly they were doing this work together, but in this case, together mostly meant Jehan doing everything, for it was they who opened the window to let in a breath of air, who emptied the basin of sick, who stripped the sheets, and got down on their hands and knees to seek out the little wooden ball, rolled away into the darkest corner beneath his bed. Grantaire disposed of a few empty bottles, and then simply stood and watched, feeling like a silent spectator in his own home. It struck him suddenly that now _ he  _ had become a quiet thing that stared, and that discomfiting notion was enough to shake his voice free again as Jehan bent to examine the lintel at his doorway, and then straightened, their plait sliding off of their shoulder as they began to search for something within the cloth bag they’d brought along with them.

“How do we keep it out, then? Will it take very long?”

Jehan looked up, and gave him a shy smile. “Not long at all. This is simple and straightforward, the exact opposite of a thing like Montparnasse.” 

Grantaire could not help a small rough laugh at this bit of truth. Montparnasse was the single twistiest thing that he had ever encountered, and he was a regular player at cards and dominos in the lowest of dives, rubbing shoulders with the cheats and the thieves there. Jehan got a look of relief at the sound, and he resolved to at least try to act more like his normal self, who he was without some otherworld consort following him, ten steps behind. He had given them enough worries already, and did not wish to add more by his silence, not when he had always been the one to fill the dead spaces and awkward pauses. “Can I help, then? Or would I be as likely to make a hash of it?” He gave a grin. A weak one, but it was something. And it was entirely likely he would do something wrong. He’d certainly made a mess this far.

“It would be better if you did help. This is your home, after all, not mine, and that counts for something.” Jehan made a small sound of triumph, emerging from the depths of their bag with a brown paper packet, which they presented to Grantaire. “There. Sea salt. Take a good handful and sprinkle it across the doorway, and another on the window ledge, and I’ll deal with the string.” They had a ball of a brilliantly red yarn in their hand, and they sat on the edge his bed beginning to uncoil it upon their lap, then took up a small iron scissors, and snipped a length, eyeing it critically, and nodding.

Grantaire opened the little package with his fingertips, paper crinkling, and looked into the whiteness of the tiny crystals. He eyeballed them dubiously, but did as he was instructed, first at the window, and then at the base of the door. He turned back to Jehan. “It hardly seems impassable. Wouldn’t it only need to be handy with a broom?” They glanced up from where they were fixing one of their scarlet strings into a knot at one of the posts of his bedstead. It looked faintly ridiculous.

“It can’t pass. Even with a broom.” Jehan smiled, as if picturing the thing going about the domestic chores, and amused by the notion. “If someone else were to clear the way for it, that would be different, but Montparnasse can’t touch it.” Their face turned thoughtful, a little frown between their eyebrows. “Tell your landlady she need not come in to sweep, now I think of it.” 

It was such practical and homely advice that for a moment, this all seemed perfectly sane. Grantaire stepped away from the door and watched as Jehan tied a length of yarn from one corner of the sill to the other at the top of the window, and did the same at the door. For a time they paused in the center of the floor, thinking, then shrugged and went to the grate, to loop a shorter length across the top of it as well. They surveyed this last knot, and laughed, soft and warm like a summer day. Turning toward him again, they smiled at his raised eyebrows.

“The thing cannot  _ fly,  _ silly man. To be honest I doubt it could fit down the chimney, even were it so determined as to come for you over the roofs. It just feels right to ward all the larger openings. Salt, please?” They held out a hand, and Grantaire passed over the nearly empty packet. Jehan cheerfully upended all the remaining salt into the grate, giving the bag a deft shake before twisting it up and tossing it into the bucket of kindling. “There. That’s all.”

Grantaire could scarcely believe that this was all it would take, but found that he felt lighter, somehow, the room safe once more. For a long moment he said nothing. He should be thanking them, he knew, but there was still something circling round in his mind. “Jehan?”

“Mm?”

“Have you figured it out yet? How I can send it back where it came from.” He was imagining things, or else Jean Prouvaire had gone just a little pale.

“I—“ Hesitation. They did know something, and they were not best pleased by it. “I would like to keep looking…”

“Jehan.” Grantaire was serious, and he was rarely a serious man. “Just tell me, won’t you?”

Jehan didn’t want to meet his eye. “The thing is, Grantaire, that it is tied to you. It’s can’t be freed unless you free it. Accept…you know.”

He did know. His hearts’ desire. But this was old news, and there was still some piece missing from the puzzle, something he could not see to make it all fit.  And there was at least one thing about the whole scenario that had never made sense. “If all it wants is to be free of me, why is it so set on not simply ending me, and having done? Why all this drawn-out song and dance?”

Jehan looked at him like they wished he would figure it out himself, just so they would not have to say whatever it was. “It would corrupt the nature of the debt. It owes you, and that’s how it’s bound.”

“And? Have it out Jehan. It won’t be better news for the suspense, I can tell.” Harsh, but true. Jean Prouvaire sighed, and met his eye. “Breaking that binding with your death would negate your gift. The debt could never be paid, and it would revert to its original bond.”

“You mean..?”

“Were you to die, it would find itself back in the field it sprang from.” 

The idea is in his head faster than thought, a hatching egg of a thing. The logic of it is merciless. It is a terrible idea, perfect, and terrible, and he can see from the look on Jehan’s face that they know very well the path his mind has leapt along. 

“No, “ says Jean Prouvaire, and there is hard iron in their voice. “Grantaire, no. We will find some other way. We are not giving up.”

Grantaire nodded. “Alright. We will try.” The inside of his mouth was very dry.

Jesus, he needed a drink.

Jehan looked at him, and linked their arm though his, and together they left the suddenly airless flat, headed for the café Musain.

 

The back room at Musain was so very  _ normal  _ that he could have wept. They arrived just as the sun went down, and in no time he was at a table with cheery little Joly, and good natured, unlucky Bossuet, listening to them chatter about all of the little goings on that he had missed, these past few weeks. Jehan was in the far corner, head close together with Combeferre, who was listening to whatever they were telling him with skepticism writ on his face, alongside a great deal of curious interest. Courfeyrac was sat with them, leaning on one elbow, making a face like he was trying not to laugh. Combeferre started slightly at something Jehan said, and turned his head to look across at Grantaire, who quickly ducked his eyes, and brought his attention back to what Bossuet was saying.

“Oh, yes, it’s a complete domestic drama now, with Bahorel’s mistress. Mistresses?” He shook his bald head, laughter crinkling his eyes. “Perhaps more a domestic farce. At any rate, I think it’s just the new one now, the girl that laughs all the time.”

Grantaire laughed, himself. It felt good to have something to laugh about for a moment. “How’d he make that exchange so quickly?”

Joly leaned toward him, dropping his voice for the sake of making the tale seem even more of a scandal. “The seamstress found out about the new one. I heard tell that she screamed him right out of her place of employ.”

Bossuet guffawed. “She took her scissors to his waistcoat! He’s been in a fury.” He shrugged. “It’s good the new girl is so cheery, and keeps him up so late, or else he’d be in mourning for the thing.” The waistcoat, and not the mistress, of course. Grantaire could not have dreamed up a better sort of tale to distract him from his troubles, and he grinned. 

Joly smiled at his grin, and then had a sudden thought. “Oh! We saw your friend today! That tall, handsome fellow, what was it…Montparnasse!” Joly sounded pleased to have remembered. Grantaire’s spine stiffened.

“Oh, yes! We ran into him coming over the square, just at lunch. Charming man, and I think he actually likes my puns!” Bossuet seemed pleased by this. “I was saying how you only groan at them, most times, and how you prefer your jokes long and full of mythology…”

Grantaire choked a little, and Joly patted him absently on the back as he added his piece. “He likes mythology, your friend. He was utterly tickled when we were telling him about how you had re-christened Enjolras as Apollo, for his hair.” Grantaire stared at him. How many of them had it spoken to, what had they told it? Joly blinked at him, looking concerned. “I say! Are you quite all right—“

It was just then that Feuilly came to join them. He looked at Grantaire curiously, and then said to Bossuet in an undertone, “Has R had a bit much to drink? He looks ghastly—“

Bossuet shook his head, baffled. “I don’t think. We were just telling him how we’d been chatting with Montparnasse today, and he went all chalky.”

“Huh. That’s funny.” Feuilly lifted the brim of his cap and gave Grantaire another look. “Maybe try a bit of water?  You know, I saw Montparnasse this afternoon too. Said he’d been over by the law students’ favorite café to see Courfeyrac, and heard from him that I paint fans, and wanted to ask me something about art?” He scoffed a little. “As if what I do is real art. Grantaire, I said that it was you he should be asking, that you had studied with Le Gros, and made the most excellent sketches of us all, but especially that study you did of Enjolras! I wonder, did you end up painting—“ 

Grantaire was on his feet, nearly knocking over the chair in his haste.

“Jehan! We—“ Bahorel nearly ran him over as he came through the door and they both came up short for an instant.

“You all will not  _ believe _ who I—oh! R! I’m sorry.” He grinned down at him from his happy height. “ A funny coincidence, I only just now saw your friend Montparnasse! I think Enjolras is trying to get him to join us, they’re just talking downstairs.”

Grantaire took the stairs at such speed, that he very nearly fixed everything by falling down them and breaking his neck, and then caused a pile-up by stopping dead on the last one. Jehan ran into his back, nearly knocking him flat. Bahorel, never one to miss out when it seemed there might be action of some sort, was following, and ran into their back as well, then caught the poet in one arm before they could fall with a mumbled  _ Sorry. _

Montparnasse and Enjolras were stood together at the far end of the bar, beside the door. They were speaking together, low and close, dark and golden heads bowed together as they talked. They were utterly beautiful there together, two fine sculptures, sun and shadow made flesh, and Grantaire could not do anything but stand and stare, transfixed. Montparnasse had one booted foot slung up on the low rung of a stool, Enjolras that close to the thing that the angle of its leg was blocking his path, and he would have to push at its thigh if he wished to get away.

He did not look much as if he intended to move away from Montparnasse.

He did not look like Grantaire had ever seen him look, and he had studied Enjolras’ face for as long as he had known the man, would have said he knew every singular quirk of eyebrow, each long-lashed blink, every pale freckle in the wrinkling of his nose when he laughed. He had not imagined Enjolras could look like this, and, heaven help him, he had  _ tried. _ The look Enjolras had given the thing, that first night, when he took its hand, had been nothing, nothing at all, it had not even been trying with him, then. Now, everything in the young man seemed to be yearning toward the thing somehow, and his eyes were soft and glassy, as if he were fevered, or had been dosed with laudanum, but under that softness, a sort of heat. Grantaire saw the tip of Enjolras’ tongue for a moment, petal pink as he wet his lips, and swallowed softly. 

He was afraid he might be about to throw up for the second time today. Vaguely he could feel Jehan’s hand on his arm, their mouth saying something beside his ear that he only heard as a wordless underwater murmuring. 

The thing shifted slightly, and looked up for a moment. It met Graintaire’s eyes, and it’s lovely, perfect bowed lips stretched oh-so-slowly and  _ smiled  _ at him 

and then its hand was tangled in Enjolras’ hair pulling tilting his sweet head back his neck such a beautiful curve and Enjolras was  _ smiling  _ was wrapping a graceful arm around the things neck was kissing it Oh God it was kissing him in the middle of a room full of people kissing the way that would bruise mouths moving the red lips the gold curls the black curls tangled together on and on 

and finally, finally broke apart. Enjolras looked positively dazed, breathless, and the two of them were still pressed tight together. Montparnasse leaned, and whispered something into Enjolras’ delicate ear, and received a smile of heartbreaking sweetness in return, and then it too casually laid its arm across his shoulders, and led him out the door. As it swung shut behind them, Montparnasse  _ laughed _ .

The laugh broke through whatever spell was holding Grantaire, and suddenly he could hear everything, too loud, especially the drumming of his own heart, and he was heading for the door with the world awash in red fury, but Jehan had his arm, and was so much stronger than they looked, and suddenly Bahorel, of all people, had him too, probably still with no idea of what was going on as he kept him from running out into the street after the thing, the thing that had Enjolras, and Jehan was in front of him, a hand on either side of his face to make him look them in the eyes.

“Grantaire! Grantaire, listen to me!” Their voice sounded higher and tighter than usual. “It  _ wants  _ you to go haring off after them! It is playing with you, do you understand me? Setting you off balance with anger, and fear, so it can make you do this the way it wants. You can’t go after them!”

“But  _ Enjolras _ —Jehan, I can’t!”

“You  _ must,  _ Grantaire,  _ think!  _ It won’t hurt him, it won’t, because it  _ can’t,  _ it has to bring him back to you. Right now it’s—showing off, like a child with a toy that it knows someone else wants. Trying to make you angry, so you’ll make mistakes. We need to prepare for when it comes back. Come up with a plan.” Grantaire buried his face in his hands for a moment. Plans had done them not a whit of good so far, and he felt as if the jaws of a trap were closing on him. 

Bahorel’s hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked up. The other man looked utterly bemused, clearly had no idea at all what they were talking about, but gave him a kind smile. “Let me get you a drink. Some wine, and say what’s going on?” He shook his head, and opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, staring into Bahorel’s chest, a waistcoat the deep burnt orange of autumn leaves, because his angry mistress had chopped up the red one—

He turned on his heel to face Jehan once more.

“I have an idea.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was afraid, briefly, white writing this chapter, that this story had gone right off the rails, but it seems I was mistaken, thank god. That, and at one point I looked at the word count and thought maybe two shorter chapters, but then decided it would be evil to make you wait for some answers after that last interlude, so instead, you get one really long one!  
> The beautiful and awful thing that is the very idea of Enjolparnasse (theres your teased rare pair) is the reason this fic happened. They're both gorgeous, but it is the most WRONG thing imaginable, so i just kinda leaned into it a bit LOL 
> 
> Jehan's warding is based entirely on imagination, not exploding the word count, and Git 'Er Done Quick, and has absolutely no relation to any sort of a) actual magical rituals b) research. Just go with it. Ditto for any spelling/grammar/formatting issues, I am doing all the editing for myself.
> 
> In case anyone wonders: there was no spell keeping R still, unless you consider complete horror and shock a spell.


	7. A Simple and Straightforward Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It knew anger and hunger and want, but it did not understand about love.
> 
> Grantaire's idea is unexpectedly put to the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings this chapter!  
> ...unless you count Non-Canon Explanation for Canon Object as deeply disturbing content, anyhow.

First, they went back to the upstairs room, to tell the tale to the Amis de l’ABC. Some were more easily convinced than others, Bahorel running off almost straight away to go and yell under his old mistress’ window for the return of his abused scarlet waistcoat, and saying that holes or no, it was all the protection he wanted. Combeferre was most skeptical of them all, but once he said that he believed, Grantaire was certain that he truly did, unlike Courfeyrac, who he suspected was only convinced into having a wrist bound up in red ribbon for the sake of humouring him, giving him a pitying look as it was tied. He wasn’t sure about Joly and Bossuet’s feelings on the matter, but they went along, which was all that was truly important, and Feuilly said he didn’t care if it was true or not, that they should be willing to do any manner of foolish thing were their chief potentially at risk. Red was the colour of revolutions, besides, and they all were proud to wear it.

Grantaire and Jehan and Combeferre stayed late, although the others eventually left to seek their beds, as they were not needed, not yet, and it was best they rested for whatever might be required of them when Montparnasse and Enjolras returned.  Combeferre had pulled out the best map of Paris that they had, and the three of them were studying it closely, looking for the best point to lay a final trap for the thing. Eventually Grantaire pressed a finger into one point, and looked up at the other two, and Combeferre nodded, and Jehan too, and so that part was set, although Grantaire wondered, darkly, if they quite realized what the true endgame was likely to entail.

From there, he returned with Jehan to their flat, and before the poet went seeking their own rest, the two of them made a list of things that would be needful for their success. There were not a great many of them, but Grantaire had one very specific thing in mind, and the first light of dawn saw him beating upon the door of a certain shop, and making demands, and paying money he did not really have to see them met within the hour. With the package in his arms, paper and string and the comforting bulkiness of exactly what he wanted, he felt a moment’s ease, in spite of his exhaustion.

The other plans had been wrong. Too many ways to be twisted, too concerned about the  _thing_ , with what might come next, and next, and next, and what if. This plan was only concerned with one thing, and that was Enjolras. The rest could go hang until after. It was a plan like the wards that Jehan had put up in his flat the day before, the ones they called a simple and straightforward thing.

The plan hinged on only one thing, and that thing was Grantaire. He needed to be ready, when he met Montparnasse again, ready for taunting or temptation, able to keep his head. He was sure he would never sleep, not again within this lifetime most likely, but he had to be at his best so he could do this thing for Enjolras’ sake. Probably it would happen tonight, at the café, where the thing kept following him, and so for now, he turned his feet homeward and went seeking his bed.

 

Montparnasse had been there. He knew as soon as he saw the broom leaning in the hallway, for the broom was never left out, not once in all the time he’d lived there. Perhaps it had charmed the poor widow who acted as the concierge into coming up to sweep for it, and then cutting the red cords for it as well. Grantaire hoped, in the small part of his mind that hoped for anything besides getting Enjolras back still in sound mind and body, that she had not been killed for her troubles, was not propped in the dark downstairs cupboard with the spiders in the brooms’ stead.

His door was slightly ajar, and he hugged his parcel to his chest with one arm as he laid his free hand on the door and pushed it wider, bracing himself for whatever he might see, but the room was fine. Thin morning sunlight filtered in at the window, although the strings above it hung lose, and there were no strange offerings laid out on his desk beside the little easel, no sign of a monster having ever been, and he stepped into the room completely, turning towards the bed.

For a moment, his breath stopped.

There were golden curls spilling over his pillow. A boneless hand cupped beneath a rosy cheek, red lips slightly parted, relaxed with sleep. Enjolras was in his bed and this didn’t make any sense at all. Grantaire watched the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, and part of him was relived to see him there, whole and well, but the other part, the part that knew the world for what it was (and how often had he and Enjolras clashed over that notion _),_ was waiting for the inevitable snatching away. He was not surprised when Montparnasse stepped from the dark shadow of the lee behind the door, because of course, because that was way that these things went, but he _was_ surpised in the darkness in his own voice, near enough a growl.

“Montparnasse. What have you done?”

It turned on its most charming voice. “Nothing whatever. I have brought him home. He let me in, the sweet man. I put him to bed as  if he were a babe. He needed rest.”

“This is not his home.” Grantaire was firm. Its charm was no longer a pulling thing, not with Jehan’s ribbon around his wrist, its beauty become objective and not a hook under his ribs. Besides, all he could see in the eye of his mind was Enjolras, pulling his knife to cut the threads, set to sweeping the floors like a servant, and no idea what he did or why, nor the will to ask.

“Shh.” It lifted a finger to its lips. “ You would not wish to wake the sleeping beauty.” Too late; but likely that had been the intent. Enjolras sighed, and shifted beneath the covers, long lashes lifting, blue eyes soft with sleep and enchantments, summer sky through a high veil of cloud. He turned his face toward them both, the tiniest line of confusion between his brows.

“Montparnasse?”

The thing turned its head to smile at him, and any confusion was blown away, as if by a breeze. It spoke to him in a gentle voice, the voice that made the promises. “Enjolras. Look who has come home to you.”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire and his eyes widened with happiness, and he smiled, a beautiful sunrise of a smile, perfect in its innocent joy.  He would normally have never looked at Grantaire like this, and it was so, so wrong, but still, it clutched at his heart. “R!”

_R_. A single syllable. A breath of a word, that _Aire,_ and the air left Grantaire’s lungs as if he’d been punched.A nickname that had never passed through Enjolras' lips, not once in all the time they’d known each other, and it was not like the others would have said it at all. It fell from those lips as a delighted sigh. He wasn’t quite sure what the correct response was. He eyeballed Montparnasse, who simply stood aside, with a ghost of a smirk and nothing to say, watching him. He said nothing for too long, and Enjolras looked worried, concerned, for Grantaire _._

“R, what’s wrong? I waited for you, all night. You look so tired.” Enjolras sat up, the sheet slipping off his shoulder, exposing one sharp and graceful collarbone. Sweet Lord, was he _bare_ beneath the sheets? Grantaire swallowed around a painful lump in his throat as the other man stretched out a hand to him, the sheet slipping further, and he felt he should not look but could not tear his eyes away. “Come to bed.”

He could feel a bead of sweat in the hollow of his throat for all that the room was cold, and the tickling of the curl hanging low over his eyebrow, and the crackling of the paper package in his arms as they tightened upon it, involuntary. He could sense that Montparnasse had moved, was right at his shoulder, as close as it could get without touching him. Its voice was soft in his ear. “Go on. He is yours, Rémy Grantaire.” The r’s in his name rolled like a growl. “He will permit it.”

Enjolras smiled again at him, heartbreaking. Grantaire could not answer, he had to wet his lips.

It was a terrible temptation, a shining apple hung before him, and it was no temptation at all. It was rotten at the core. A sad and hollow thing, not his hearts’ desire, not at all, and there it was, Montparnasse’s great weakness. It knew anger and hunger and want, but it did not understand about love, how he _loved,_ how he could not, could _never,_ take this thing he was being handed on a gilded platter. That this was the least of it, not even the tiniest tip of the iceberg that floated below his surface, the one that had threatened to sink him from the very first time he had ever set eyes on Enjolras.

Still, he walked forward, slowly as if the bubble of the magic might pop, never taking his eyes from his objective. He sat on the bed, his package on his lap, and took up the hand that had been held out to him, and looked down at it, smoothed his own rough hand over it, then placed it carefully down atop the coverlet as though he feared to break it. He looked into Enjolras' face, lovely and loving and lit up with a lie. He cleared his throat.

“This is not my hearts’ desire.” There was a strange moment where all was still, and then Enjolras blinked at him and Montparnasse made a dreadful sound, and Grantaire ripped the paper and in one smooth motion had the red jacket wrapped over Enjolras’ bare shoulders. The thing flew at them across the room, enraged, roaring and clawing and gnashing its too many, too sharp teeth. They huddled together on the bed, Enjolras' eyes huge, and scared and confused, Grantaire’s arms a protective circle as he repeated a _ll right all right don’t fear stay still it will be all right_ and Montparnasse could not touch them. It raved and ranted and it was not charming now, or beautiful, all the illusions drowned in its rage as it tore the books from the shelf, smashed the basin, and the pitcher, and the mirror on the wall and the glass in the windowpane itself as it went right out through it. All was still.

Grantaire was shaking. He was surpised his teeth were not clattering in his head, and if Enjolras did not realize it, it was only because he was trembling too, a thing Grantaire would never have imagined possible. Finally he managed to unwrap his arms from around the other man, and they drew apart, and stared at each other. Grantaire wondered if he looked as shattered as Enjolras did. Without the things' strange glamour on him, he looked a normal man, still beautiful, but pale and tired and the faint hint of purple smudges under his eyes, and his eyes still full of questions. Grantaire probably looked far worse, he certainly felt it, exhaustion like a wave rolling over him, and still neither could speak.

It was Enjolras who finally broke it, his fine voice sounding weak and wan. “Grantaire, what—“

“Shh.” Grantaire silenced him, and was surprised that it worked, when normally everything was the other way around. It was a backwards day, topsy-turvy, everything was upside down and finally, finally, one plan had ended _right_ in spite of everything being utterly, completely mad. This might not have been his hearts’ desire, but for right now, it would do nicely. He smiled just a bit at Enjolras, and got up from the bed. “We must find you something to wear, something to go with your new jacket. Do not lose it, it’s your favourite. Once you’re dressed, we must hurry to see Jean Prouvaire.”

He could not say why, but Grantaire felt himself grin for the first time in he could not say how long. “We need your help. We have been planning an uprising.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a chapter that does not end terribly! I figured y'all needed a little relief from the all encompassing creepfest, and I KNOW I did, so i hope you enjoyed this one.  
> Safe bet it won't last, but...enjoy it while you have it, right? Because this ain't over until...well, it aint over. Montparnasse may be off ANGRYFLAILING, but he's still stuck to Grantaire, and that is going to be a dilly of a pickle.
> 
> A little thing: I had to point up the way the letter r is pronounced in French, because i find it's lovely, just a breath that rolls a little. Have you noticed i like language a lot?


	8. A Fish in the Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What has it offered you, anyway, that would be an even exchange for its liberty?”
> 
> He was laughing again, and it was a mirthless sort of a thing. “Oh, nothing. Only my hearts’ desire.”
> 
> Grantaire has to explain to Enjolras what is going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No troubling content this chapter, unless you count R's general lack of self esteem.

 Enjolras stared at him for a long while, before nodding and getting up. He was still in his smallclothes at least, and thank god, because Grantaire had already seen quite enough for one day, and it was barely gone nine. He hadn’t completely lost his mind just yet, and his heart was still working in his chest. He rather wanted to keep it that way. They found the rest of Enjolras’ things folded neatly upon the chair in the corner.

He dressed quickly, and Grantaire held the red jacket for him as he pulled the shirt over his head, then passed it back, and finally spoke again.

“Keep it on, all the time. It will keep Montparnasse from touching you, or playing tricks.” Enjolras nodded again, once, then gave him an odd look.

“I—“ He paused, choosing his words with care. “I think that perhaps you have done me the sort of kindness I would not have ever expected, nor dreamt of from you. That maybe you have saved me from some terrible thing, and yet…” He stopped again, seemed unsure. “It makes no sense. I would swear that I had dreamed, but I remember dancing. Dancing all night, and I never dance. And I would have said that you were there, but then suddenly you really _were_ there. Or here, rather, and that _thing—!”_ He broke off once more. “This is…your room?”

Grantaire nodded, awash in a relief so profound that he did not even care how little Enjolras expected from him. The worst to have happened was a dance through fairyland, a restless night, and he did not have anything else to hate himself for. Enjolras had not suffered for Grantaire’s folly. Enjolras was looking at him, puzzled.

“Why am I here?” It was true, he had never been before, and the question made sense. “What has happened to me this night?” Grantaire felt the sudden worry that Enjolras would think he had been plied with strong drink, in spite of all that had just happened before his eyes. “Why has—“

“Not here. We will speak of it on the way.” It was the second time that Enjolras had allowed Grantaire to still him in the middle of a word, and Grantaire wondered, as they went out, what exactly had shifted between the two of them, when, and to where.

 

They walked in silence for a time, shoulder to shoulder, breaths puffing a little in the chilly morning. Grantaire had never considered this conversation, never would have dared such a thing, and found himself heartily wishing he could avoid it now, but the avoiding would only put Enjolras at risk, and everyone else too. He could not let him go ignorant, no matter that it might ruin what little friendship existed between them. He considered putting it off until they had reached Prouvaire’s flat. But he had rather not have someone else witness this, and at least walking beside, he would not have to look at Enjolras’ face as he explained. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“Montparnasse is not a man.” The words dropped into the quiet air between them, making no ripple. “It is some…thing, I know not what. I was walking, in the Clos de Montmartre, just at sunset, and when it went dark, the thing followed me out of the field. It was my fault, an accident, I gave it my name. It came all the way behind me, right into the Musain, and then spoke to me, and started to try and charm you all. So I went away, and took it with me, and did not return for more than a fortnight.”

He paused for a breath, to think, and Enjolras broke his own silence. “I wondered where you had gone.”

It was surprising. Grantaire did not think Enjolras took much notice of him, except to disapprove, or to try and talk him out of his lack of faith in humanity at large. “I did not want it to harm you all.”

“So you tried to face it down yourself.” There was the disproval. “You might have said something.”

Grantaire was not going to look at him. “I was not sure anyone would believe. But then the thing began to—go out. On its' own, staying out all night doing god-only-knows what, and returning to toy with my mind in the days. So Thursday last, after it went, I thought to come back to the café. I thought I might try to tell someone, or at least get so drunk I might not think of it for a time.” Enjolras made a small sound in the back of his throat, which Grantaire took to mean _Yes and surely that would have been of great help._ He sighed.

“There were no other hiding places, Enjolras, and a bottle would not have been the worst place to drown myself trying. At any rate, Jehan called me out. They knew. Some of those odd notions of theirs are not without worth. That red ribbon they wear, it is a sort of charm, and let them see the thing for what it was. They said they would help me to be rid of it. So I went back home to keep it away from you, if I could, and Jehan went to try to figure out what to do next.”

Enjolras was looking at him. He could see it from the corner of his eye.

“But what does it want?”

Grantaire found himself laughing, a bitter taste in his mouth. “The same as you, as all of us. To be free. Except that it would be free to kill, and destroy, not to build the new world you dream of. It has an appetite in it, a great dark hole that might swallow all Paris, if it were allowed.” He paused for a moment. “It owes me a debt. Because I gave it my name. It is tied to me until the debt is paid. So, I must find a way to send it back where it came from, and I cannot take what it offers, lest it run wild.”

Enjolras shuddered. “That would be a terrible thing. It _is_ a terrible thing, and you have shouldered it too long without enough help. You cannot save a whole city on your own.” Grantaire simply gave a small shrug in response, and they kept walking. Enjolras seemed thoughtful, and Grantaire wasn’t thinking at all, too aware of the man beside him, his tongue heavy inside his mouth. It was the weight of the thing he hadn’t said yet, and he was trying to figure how he might manage to cease with being a coward and just have it out when Enjolras spoke again, and he almost jumped. “What has it offered you, anyway, that would be an even exchange for its liberty?”

He was laughing again, and it was a mirthless sort of a thing. “Oh, nothing. Only my hearts’ desire.”

“Your hearts’ desire? And what on earth--“

“You woke up in my bed.”

Grantaire stopped walking when he realized that Enjolras was no longer beside him. He sighed, and steeled himself for whatever expression he might see when he turned around. But Enjolras did not look angry, or disgusted. What he looked like was much the expression Grantaire might have expected to see on someone who had just been slapped across the face with a still-wet, flapping fish. Complete and utter surprise. Grantaire was strangely proud of himself for not laughing yet again.

“You must have realized. Apparently, for all my efforts, I am far too transparent. Montparnasse might never have known, but that every one of our friends had some thing or other that made them suspect, and he made up your portrait from all those little brushstrokes.”

Enjolras was still looking at him, faintly stunned. “You think my ideas are foolish, and tell me so regularly. I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I do think your ideas are foolish. That does not mean I think you are. And who is the bigger, the fool, or the fool that follows him?” He turned and started walking again, because he could not keep watching Enjolras stare at him all day. It was a surprise, no doubt, but Enjolras had no right to look so very stunned, as if a whole world of new possibilities had opened up before him. Probably he was wondering if any other of his friends was secretly in love with him, and hiding the fact.

Enjolras suddenly started, and took two or three long, quick strides to fall back into step with Grantaire. “Montparnasse brought me to you. Put me into your bed. Did it need a kiss to seal the deal, that it’s in such a fury, and the curse not broken?” Grantaire snorted.

“Are you Sleeping Beauty then? I would not make much of a prince.”

“Grantaire—“

“It could put you in my bed, but that is not what—It cannot make you love me.” A moment of silence. He had not meant to say it outright like that. Was it too late to just go back in time, and somehow have the thing in the field eat him alive? It would have been easier, certainly, and possibly less painful, involving less of cutting himself with his own words.

“Grantaire.”

“Let it be. We’re here.”  They went in, and up the narrow stair, and knocked on the door of Jean Prouvaire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter today, but i thought i might not post one at all, as my friends are throwing me a going-away party this evening. I think with this there are either 3 or 4 to go, plus an epilogue. Also, there may be a bit of a slowdown, and not this Chapter Every Night business, much I am loving churning them out, because I am moving out of my apartment on Tuesday, and then floating around the homes of various relations for a couple weeks before I move into the new one.
> 
> **A note about next chapter: Assuming all goes to my notes, big bad things happen next chapter, and there are going to be Content Warnings. If you are someone who doesn't have content concerns and would like to avoid any wiff of plot twists before they arrive, you'll want to avoid the notes at the start. And if you do prefer a heads up about stuff first, that's where you'll find them.


	9. Willow, Willow, Willow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras made a frustrated sound, then looked at Prouvaire. “And you agree with this? Combeferre agreed?”
> 
> Finally Jehan put in a word. “It—“
> 
> “It is not even a whole plan!” 
> 
> Enjolras is not happy about the plan, and Jehan has a bad feeling about it too, but Grantaire is not letting any of that stop him.
> 
>  
> 
> ***Important CW in the top notes for those who want them. if you aren't concerned about content and want to avoid hints of whats to come, scroll past them without reading***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very Bad Things Go Down in the last three paragraphs of this chapter. Like, very bad, like I agonised over this and realised I had written myself into a corner on purpose so i could not get out of this in any other way and chicken out of my original idea.  
> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> -If you have issues surrounding Water and/or Drowning this is not going to please you. You could avoid this one by stopping at the break after the words "...into the river", and not bothering with the final three paragraph section.  
> -Act of Suicidal Self Sacrifice. 
> 
> To top those off a truly appalling cliffhanger, i am so sorry.

Enjolras got up and stalked over to the window before rounding on them both.

“How is that a plan? It has no—“ He waved an arm as if casting about for a word. “It doesn’t have an end! You can’t just sit there with it for the rest of your life, Grantaire!”

Grantaire leaned back slightly, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I will if I have to.”

Enjolras made a frustrated sound, then looked at Prouvaire. “And you agree with this?  _Combeferre_ agreed?”

Jehan didn’t get to answer, Grantaire was already talking. “He did! Because Combeferre sees that it’s necessary, that we have to get the thing away from people, it is dangerous!”

Finally Jehan put in a word. “It—“

“It is not even a whole plan!” Enjolras turned sharply, and looked back out of the window as if expecting to see an answer written in the stone of the facing building, possibly engraved there by the ferocity of his glaring.

Grantaire and Enjolras rarely agreed on things, but they seldom argued either. Generally Enjolras would either give him a lookthat told him he was tiptoeing too close to true disrespect, and he would relent and return to his bottle, or else Grantaire would say something so completely buried in innuendo, classicism, and generalized nonsense that their chief would simply roll his eyes and go on as if he had never spoken at all. This conversation was shaping up rather differently, as Grantaire’s plan was set, and he was not about to be moved. He was the immovable object. Enjolras had not yet realized that he was trying to play the other role in the metaphor, or perhaps he might have quit while he was ahead.

 _But then perhaps not,_ thought Grantaire. Because it was Enjolras, after all. Who turned back again with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Jehan,” he said. “You explain. Perhaps you can add some sense to this, which it is currently sorely lacking.”

Grantaire was not even offended. He found himself strangely touched that the man was so concerned.

Jean Prouvaire began again. “It—“ They gave both men a look, as if daring them to interrupt. “It is not a complete plan, Enjolras, you are right. But it is a good plan, for what it is meant to accomplish, and moreover, the only one we possess. We need to buy ourselves time to find a solution, without Montparnasse laying little traps for us at every turn, and butchering whatever poor unfortunates it encounters between the Luxembourg and the Seine.” Their face was serious, which put harder lines in it than were usually there.

“So. You, and I, and Combeferre will be hidden under the stairs where Pont Neuf crosses the tip of Île de la Cité, with all the things I mentioned before. Blankets, and food, and a lantern for Grantaire to use, later. And all the salt we can carry, and some long skeins of red wool. And once we are there, Grantaire will walk over the bridge, and Montparnasse will have to follow with him, because of the water. He will bring the creature right out to the far point of the island, with the willow tree, where people go to kiss their sweethearts in the summer.” Grantaire gave a small half-laugh at this, for he had once taken a girl there himself and had much more than a kiss from her. Enjolras gave him a funny look. Jehan looked hard at them both, then shot a bemused glance at the ceiling, and forged ahead.

“Grantaire shall try to keep Montparnasse occupied there, and while he does, we will salt the stairs, quick as we may, and I will find some places to knot the yarn—I will go ahead of our time, and look for likely spots. So it will not be able to leave again, as long as Grantaire remains there. We will be able to look for another answer to the riddle of how to send it back where it came from while it is trapped there, with few chances for…mischief.”

Enjolras still did not look convinced, even with Jehan’s soothing voice explaining it all so calmly. He was shaking his head. “I do not see why only the four of us—“

Grantaire cut in. “It is enough, and I would not have any more of us closer to the thing than needs be.”

“Surely—“ This time it was Jehan who cut Enjolras off.

“No, he is right. And the fewer who know a plan, the fewer can give it away. None would mean to betray us, but you have seen how Montparnasse works, it might still happen somehow. So, we three—you and I because we already know, of necessity. Combeferre, for his cool head, and if anything goes amiss, it is never bad to have a man of medicine.” He paused, frowning. “I had thought Bahorel, for his strength, but he can be so—“

“Rash, I know.” Enjolras nodded at this, but he still looked unhappy. “But to expect Grantaire to stay there with the thing for who knows how long, with only a bridge and a pile of blankets…it’s the tail end of autumn.” He looked at Grantaire again. “You might catch your death of chill.” Grantaire knew his death was likely to come sooner, and by other means than something so simple as a chill, but he was not about to say so, and Enjolras was already going on. “We should be looking for its name! Jehan, you said that we could use that—“

Grantaire laughed. “This is not a _fairy tale,_ Enjolras, you think it is Rumplestiltskin? That you will just find a name for it through the power of your own will before nightfall?” He stood and looked Enjolras in the eye, wishing that he were of a height with the man, to stare him down properly. His stubbornness would have to pick up his stature’s slack. “We are doing this _my_ way, and we are doing it tonight, before the sun is down.”

Enjolras had never been spoken to like this by Grantaire, who until today, would never have dared.  His cheeks went a little red, and then a little white, and then he narrowed his eyes. “If this goes wrong—“ He stopped. “We have hours yet until sunset. I do not like this, and I am going to the library, to see if I cannot find a history of the Clos de Montmartre. Perhaps there will be something that might help without you sitting out there on that rock with Montparnasse for days, while we fish in the dark for something else! I am not waiting here until tonight, cooling my heels and twiddling my thumbs, and hoping an answer might fall on us from out of the the sky!”

He glared down his nose at Grantaire for a moment longer, then turned on his heel and went out, shutting the door with a bang. Grantaire stood there a moment, feeling wretched that he should have argued with him with so little time before the wheels were set in motion.

“Grantaire?” Jehan. For a moment he had almost forgotten them, in spite of being in the middle of their apartment.

“Yes?”

“He’s right. It is not a complete plan.”

“It is.”

Jehan gave him a look, deep and inscrutable. “Grantaire.”

Grantaire looked right back. “It is as complete as it needs to be for now.” Jehan kept their eyes on him a moment more, as if trying to see right through him. Then they sighed, and rose.

“I must go to find Combeferre, and then we shall fetch the salt. We will be waiting for you, under Pont Neuf. An hour before sunset, Grantaire.” They reached out and set a hand on his arm, with another of those solemn, serious looks. “Remember to dress warm.”

 

It was an hour to sunset. Grantaire stood at the end of Pont Neuf, looking across the Seine at the sharp jutting point that was his goal, and took a long, shaking breath. It would work. He was sure that it would work. Montparnasse would be able to do nothing once they were there, trapped until it was sent back from whence it had come.  Still, his woollen tailcoat hung heavy from his shoulders, buttoned to his chin against the stiff breeze on the river, and he felt reluctant to make a first step along the path he had set.

The others were nowhere to be seen, tucked away below a curve of the bridge where it crossed the bottom of the island. He was glad that this was the shorter arm of the bridge, for in honesty, he thought he might not have made it across the longer without turning back, in spite of the harm the creature would surely do. But he was stalling now. He wanted this done before the dark hours arrived. Everything seemed easier in sunlight, and it had been a perfect fall day, with a fine gusty breeze, and air as crisp as a fresh apple. Grantaire looked at the sky, it’s high, clear blue edging into lavenders and purples, the soft pink puffs of clouds at sundown, and took another breath, and stepped out onto the span of the bridge.

It was at exactly the middle of the bridges' length that Montparnasse was suddenly beside him, without a sound, but seeming to materialize from the clear air, perfectly walking in stride. It was elegant in its fine top hat and black suit, its high white collar, cravat tied just so. It was wearing, Grantaire noticed, white gloves, that made its hands seem even longer and more graceful than they had been without.

“You have become very fashionable, Montparnasse!” He said with a cheer he could not feel.

The thing was clearly in no mood for small talk, not that such had ever been its forte. It was no longer in its earlier rage, perhaps, but its eyes were dark and ominous, and it was clear that the fire had only been banked within it, ready to spring forth anew at any provocation. “Where are you going?” It asked, voice a low, velvet growl.

“We,“ said Grantaire, “are going over to the Île de la Cité. I want to tell you a thing.”

Montparnasse sniffed. “What could you possibly say to interest me? I know your secret, Rémy Grantaire.” It paused. “I will get him back, you know. You will accept my payment. Or perhaps I will decide I no longer care if I have a larger playground. I could destroy him, and you would have nothing to do—“

“Hush.” They had reached the island, and Grantaire turned to the left, and headed down the stone steps. “You will want to hear it, I think.” The stair ended, and there were steep stone walls going down into the water at either hand, and the cobbles before them tapering into an angle as sharp as a corbie’s beak that pointed the way upstream. Right at the point there was a tree. In the summer it would be green and lush, to keep away the prying eyes while lovers stole kisses beneath. Now it was nearly bare, a few thin, paper-yellow leaves clinging to it with a stubborn flutter, and the long black lines of branches drooping in curves toward the water. Grantaire stopped for one moment, and just looked at it. It was haunting. Graceful, and lonely, and he found himself remembering Jehan, reading to them one evening in the back room of the Musain, some old English thing, melancholy. He stepped toward the tree, with Montparnasse a step behind.

“There is a willow grows aslant a brook, that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.” The thing looked at him, almost seeming surprised.

“A pretty notion. I would not expect—“ It stopped, and looked at him, a dangerous look. "It is nonsense. You waste time. What have you to say?”

Grantaire stopped beneath the tree. He looked out over the water, then turned back to face the thing.

“Montparnasse, I think I have confused you. You brought me my hearts’ desire, and I said it was not right, and you are still bound to me.” It was either very, very interested in his words, or it was about to try and tear his throat out, red ribbon be damned. Grantaire did not take his eyes off of it, but could see a faint movement behind it from the corner of his eye, back at the stairs. The others were not wasting time, and it was good, because he feared that he would lose his courage completely if this went on too long. “I can tell you why it does not work. I want be rid of you as badly as you want to be of me. Will you hear it?”

Montparnasse leaned in toward him, a thing of appetite, a void. _“Yesss...”_

“I think it is this. A simple thing. You know want, and hunger and lust, you understand them. And so you offer me a body. You make illusions, and twist him up until he says what I want to hear, would allow me to take any liberty that I wished. You hand me a beautiful thing like a doll and think that it would be enough, but it would put a hole in me like the one that is in you, one that would swallow me, as well as him. And I would still be alone.”

Someone was waving, he thought it was Jehan. They must be finished. The thing was still staring at him, enrapt, waiting to learn the secret.

“You will never get away from me until I am dead, I think, because you do not understand love. Love is a true thing, and you offer a pretty lie in it's place. I would not take what he did not freely give me, ever. You could never give me my hearts’ desire, Montparnasse. It is not yours to give.”

Montparnasse stared at him, still not comprehending.

“Love is a giving thing.”

Grantaire stepped backward off of the stone wall, and into the river.

 

The water was not very deep here, but it was deep enough, and there was no tremendous current to drag him, but only the weight of the stones in his pockets, his deepest pockets, his heaviest woolen coat, pulling him down. He was not going to fight this. He could not. It was the only way to send the creature back, Jehan had even agreed and he hoped they would not be too very angry at him for not telling them the plan.

The water was cold, and it was dark and he had to keep convincing his body not to fight to go up, and that part was not so very, very hard, in spite of instinct, besides he could not get away from the coat with its rocks, he had planned it. His teeth were the traitors. He could not convince them to unclench, to let the water in, they were fighting against it. His lungs ached to breathe in, but he could not force his lips to open, for all his willing them to do so, his telling them that it was just another bottle, to take a long drink. Little lights flashed in his eyes and there was a rushing sound, and a pounding, like a drum, and sharp little knives inside his chest.

There was something in the water with him. Something, moving, a flash of red (and what a shame he would not see Enjolras again in his fine red jacket blue eyes golden hair but safe safe safe) and it was too dark to tell but it was trying to pull him and he couldn’t let it, no. Fingers were prying at the buttons of his coat, and he tried to push them away, but his arms would not comply, his arms were floating and he was floating, and he opened his mouth to warn them, to say that it was danger, that he was a marked man, and suddenly there was water, the Seine flowing between his teeth and over his tongue and in his throat, and Grantaire was caught up by the scruff of his neck, and shaken, and pulled away into black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me for this cliffhanger, please? Freaking Grantaire! It's not quite "I am one of them" oh-shoot-me-too-please, but still it's close! Enjolras had good reason to worry about This Bloody Plan, and I think Jehan may have wondered what they weren't being told, too.
> 
> There is one part of this chapter that i am still not quite sure i love....but i don't hate it, and i hope i am just being too self critical.
> 
> This is the LONGEST CHAPTER OF THE STORY. It is approximately as long as the longest complete story i had ever written before this fic? WHO AM I?
> 
> By my reckoning we have two chapters plus epilogue to go...And my brother is arriving tomorrow to start out with me on my cross country voyage to Halifax, via Montreal... what i am saying is you may not get the next chapter tomorrow, but I promise it no later than thursday.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Interlude: Under Harvest Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire stood in a field of vines.
> 
> Someone was coming.

Grantaire stood in a field of vines.

It stretched away as far as he could see, dead vines and dry leaves, and the long furrow in which he stood seemed to go on forever. It was the same behind him, when he turned, and all was quiet and still. Too quiet, his own feet made no sound on the dark earth. He could not even hear himself breathe. Stiller than the hours past midnight, and no breeze at all, the air cool and heavy with the absence of sound, stale, the air of a crypt.

The moon hung low above him in a starless sky, full and pale orange and as ripe and round as a cheese. It washed the endless field with a pale glow, making deep, dark shadows that crept under the leaves and over the ground and twined with the thin wisping fog. A harvest moon, but the harvest was past, if there ever had been a harvest here. It was a Hunter’s moon.

Someone was coming.

A figure was walking toward him down the long row between the twisted vines, and he stood to meet them and wondered if he should be afraid. It was Montparnasse. A thing somehow  both lovelier and more terrible than Grantaire’s strange memories of it, looming taller, and oddly stretched, long and lean and paler now than fair, bleached white like a bone. Its eyes were black, a dull red gleam in the pit of them, a pinprick of blood. It came on, slowly, silent and fey, and stopped a few paces before him, and it looked at him, and he looked back.

“What is this place? Why have you brought me here?” His words dropped strangely into the unnatural, silent night, and echoed in his ears as if through water.

“It is Between. I have not brought you, you have brought me. That was a nasty trick, monsieur.” Its voice curled in around the word _nasty_. It blinked at him slowly. Like a cat. Not human. Was he in danger? Perhaps he was in danger. “I will not stay in this field. I will not go back, I will find a way. I have a way already. I will find you, wherever you go.”

Grantaire was not sure where it thought he was going. He was here. There were no other places.

It had called him _Monsieur._

“Wait.” Its focus was intense, and the fear that he could not muster before began a slow creeping through him, but there was something he knew to ask, an answer he was here for. “What is my name?”

It snarled a little, showing teeth.

“You have forgot my name?”

A growl in place of an answer, and it leapt.

 

Grantaire was running.

He was running the long endless field in the darkness, running for his life, and in a second it would be on him. Would tear out his throat, would rend his flesh, and he could never outrun it. There was nowhere to run _to,_ he would be running from this horror forever. Long fingers were clutching at him, and the dry leaves and twigs catching him, scratches he could hardly feel in his terror. How was it not already pulling him down? He was tripping, stumbling over his feet, could not get air, he could not breathe, and then something hit him like a fist, was hitting him full in the chest, and he was falling and it would have him and he could hear it _roaring—_

His eyes flew open, and he gasped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightmare running is always the worst. Although in my nightmares, usually my legs won't move.  
> Surprise! I short little chapter as I head out today, next update from Montréal. :)


	11. Hearts' Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened next.

His eyes flew open, and he gasped.

Grantaire sat up abruptly, barely missing smashing his face into Combeferre's, and doubled over himself with a series of great choking coughs that felt like he was trying to rip out his own lungs, expelling a shocking amount of water as he did so. For a moment or two he thought he might never take a full breath again, but finally the last of the hacking subsided, leaving him to catch his breath. Which was the point at which Jehan threw their arms around his neck, clinging there like a limpet, half laughing, half crying, and clearly not caring in the least that Grantaire was absolutely sopping wet.

Then they left off hugging him, only to take him by the shoulders and shake him so that his teeth nearly rattled together. “You stupid, _stupid_ man! What on earth were you thinking? You—“ Jehan kept on speaking, but Grantaire barely listened, instead trying to get his bearings. The sun had finished its descent, leaving a bare smear of rosy light behind the city, and somehow he was back beneath the willow tree, on the cobbled ground in just his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, dripping wet. Combeferre was there as well, glasses askew and looking faintly stunned, and it was he who eventually touched Jehan’s arm, causing them to cease their babble.

“Give him a minute, won’t you, Jehan?” He seemed a bit shaken himself, when he was normally so unruffled. Grantaire was used to thinking of him as the proverbial duck that stayed calm on the surface no matter how madly it was paddling beneath, although his feathers had definitely been stirred up tonight. In fact, he was looking at Grantaire as if a bit stunned. He took off his lop-sided glasses, wiped them with his sleeve before settling them back on his nose properly, and then grinned. “It truly worked! I’d heard it might, with drowned men, to blow the breath back into them, but I never thought—“ His voice turned stern.“ Grantaire, you fool! You might have died. You did, you—“ He stopped again, and shook his head. “We should get you home, and out of those clothes, before you catch your death anyway.”

“But—“ Grantaire could not work out what had happened. “I’m not drowned?”

“You most assuredly were, at least for a few moments. You gave us all the most awful fright, just now.”

He’d done it then. Or had he? And the thing in the field, it had lost his name, and then could not catch him, Montparnasse—he looked around, wildly. “The thing! Where--?

Jehan laid a hand on his knee, soothing, and calm again, thank heavens. “It went up like an explosion, into a great cloud of ravens, all wheeling and screeching. They flew off over the city towards La Butte, to Montmartre. Back where it came from. Just before Enjolras pulled you out.”

Enjolras. A flash of red in the gloom. Fingers that fumbled at his throat.

Grantaire turned his head, and there he was, standing a few paces off in his sodden red jacket, dripping with river water. His golden curls were darkly plastered to his head, and he resembled nothing so much as an angry wet cat. He looked at Grantaire, his lips pressed into a tight line, and crossed his arms over his chest. His expression made Grantaire feel almost ill for moment, a tight knot in his stomach, and he found himself stumbling to his feet, batting away Combeferre’s attempts to assist him rising, and crossing the space between them in a few steps. Enjolras stared at him a moment, then quite abruptly turned his back, furious past speech.

Grantaire didn’t quite know what to say, especially to the back of the man. He lifted a hand, but wasn’t sure if he should touch him or not.

“Enjolras, I—“

As suddenly has he had turned away, Enjolras spun back around, hands clenched into fists, eyes boring holes into Grantaire’s. “You—you _bastard!”_ All his usual eloquence seemed to have failed him. “How dare you do such a thing? That’s your idea of a plan, to say nothing at all, to any of us? To just—just—“

“I had to. It was the only way, and if I had told you—“

“I would never have let you do it!”

“But you should have! It would have destroyed you, and half the city, and I’m not that important! You should have—“

“Let you die?” Enjolras was nearly white with anger. “Not _important!_ You—“

He broke off, and made a frustrated sound, and Grantaire was certain that he was about to have to pick himself up off the ground again, because Enjolras was going to hit him. But instead he was closing the distance between them, had Graintaire’s face caught between his hands, and Enjolras’ lips were on his, and—

Oh.

_Oh._

Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought of anything like this furious, desperate, burning kiss. He wanted to bottle the feeling bubbling up in his chest, to save it for later. Maybe he actually was dead, maybe this was heaven. But it had to be real, both of them dripping water, and tasting of the river, beginning to shiver with the cold. Enjolras broke away, but he kept his hands around Grantaire’s face, and looked into his eyes, that close, as he spoke. “Never again, Grantaire. Never, never do such a thing again. We could not stand to lose you. I could not.”

This said, he pressed his lips once, softly, against Grantaire’s forehead, and then released him.

Grantaire said nothing, but nodded once, dumbly, feeling a bit like he had just been struck by lightning. And then Jehan was there, taking him by the arm, and Combeferre was doing the same with Enjolras, saying that they must both get indoors, and warm, and dry, right away, or surely they would be ill. He followed along and did as he was told, more than a little bit stunned.

 

They left that part out of the story when they told the rest of it at Musain that night. Everyone was full of praise for Enjolras’ quick action, and Combeferre’s miraculous restoration of a dead man’s breath. Grantaire was alternately scolded to within an inch of his returned life, and made much of for the bravery with which he had faced his fate, although they seemed to agree with Enjolras, to a man. He was called an idiot with startling frequency, but also a great deal of affection. It made him feel rather warm, to know his friends truly cared so much.

They were not the only ones who came with tales.

Courfeyrac arrived among them swearing that he would never remove the red ribbon from his wrist, not again in this life. He had taken it off before seeking his bed, hooking it over the knob of the door to his chamber, only to be wakened at half seven in the morning by  _something_ pounding and clawing outside of it, howling with anger, until he hid himself inside the wardrobe with his clothes and stopped up his ears. After, when he got up the nerve to open the door, the knob was blackened on the outside, and the wood was scored with wicked deep claw marks, the like of which he had never seen before, nor ever hoped to see again.

Joly and Bossuet’s mistress went out from their shared bed, just as the bells were ringing nine. They only barely stopped her from climbing out of the window, and their apartment up six flights of stairs. Musichetta swore that there was a baby out there, crying, _couldn’t they hear it_ , and fought so that Bossuet was forced to hold her down and sit on her while she beat at him with her little fists, screaming for them to let her go, until Joly found an old faded red scarf of his and wrapped it around her neck, whereupon she left off, dissolving into a flurry of tears and apologies.

Worst of all was Bahorel’s new mistress, the laughing girl, for she had vanished without a trace.

It had been somewhere in the hours after Montparnasse had left Grantaire and Enjolras that morning, but that was all anyone could say. Grantaire thought of the way the thing had raged and was not sure if it would be better they found a sign of what had happened to her, or not. Feuilly had tried to calm the man down, but Bahorel had torn off his tattered red waistcoat in a passion of distress, and gone out wandering the city in search of her, vowing to kill Montparnasse with his own hands if the two of them should chance to meet. Grantaire found himself wondering what he would say to Bahorel when he returned, for he felt, somehow, that it was all his fault, that he should have done something sooner. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up.

Enjolras met his eyes, and squeezed his shoulder once, then moved away to discuss something with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Grantaire glanced over at Jean Prouvaire, who raised their eyebrow at him, a question. Grantaire shrugged, but gave them a small smile, then looked back towards Enjolras again.

A sun he turned toward. Montparnasse had understood that much, if no more.

Enjolras knew now how he felt, and did not despise him, and he’d had a kiss, freely given. He did not know what would come next, but if this was as close as ever he came, this near glimpse of his dreams, still, Grantaire felt, it was good enough.

 

The kiss was not all.

It was not ever going to be an easy thing, what lay between them, but they left together that evening, and walked, and talked, and kissed, and there was more in the days that followed, a strange sort of dance where they sometimes laughed and sometimes fought, and began to learn one another. If Grantaire’s feelings had been hidden behind a wall of thorns and words, Enjolras had kept his own locked up in box surrounded by silence, and that had not really changed so much. Grantaire would say more than he ought, when he shouldn’t, and in a great tangle that would sometimes take hours to unknot. Enjolras would say nothing, as if expecting his mind should be read, and then be sharp in his temper because it was not. They had to learn which turnings not to take, and where the hidden stones lay to trip over, as they started to walk a path together, and it was hard, but worthwhile. And it had only been a fortnight and they had all the time in the world before them.

They did not have to dodge some monster while they did it. It was no small thing.

Slowly, slowly, their meetings returned almost to normal. There were differences: Bahorel was spotty in his attendance, and would not replace his old waistcoat with a new. The rest bore red ribbons with them, always, might never leave off doing so again, and Enjolras never wore any jacket but the one Grantaire had given him. Grantaire drank less. The pair of them often arrived together now, and left the same way more often than not, and their disagreements, when they happened, seemed more straightforward, somehow, and less cutting, and they would neither of them leave the room before they patched things between them.

Sometimes, Enjolras would call him _R._ Not at the meetings, but later, when they were alone, and it was perfect.

It was his heart’s desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my notes, when I though up this whole Grantaire-dies-but-then-doesn't solution, the only thing i said about the whole chapter was: What Is Dead Can Never Die. So I guess thanks, GoT?  
> BTW one of my favourite ridiculous fantasy novel tropes is people spontaneously inventing modern first aid in emergency situations, so i enjoyed getting to use it here.  
> I hope this "ending" is satisfying...I am not one of those people who thinks E and R would just automatically kiss once and all the misunderstandings fall away, they are such drastically different people that any relationship between them would be the effort of a lot of long hard work on both their parts.
> 
> There is still an epilogue coming. Consider yourself warned:  
> This is where you bow out for a Happy Ending.  
> Scary Story has other ideas in mind. >:)


	12. Epilogue: In At The Buttonhole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAIR WARNING: You want a Happy Ending, go back and read the last chapter a second time. I think you'll be very happy together.  
> This epilogue is not that ending.

Something was wrong.

Grantaire knew it as soon as they rounded the corner towards Musain, for the others all stood in a tight little clump before the door. He glanced at Enjolras. Enjolras glanced back at him, and shrugged, and so they went to meet them.

“Combeferre..?” Enjolras always addressed his first question to the same man. But this time, their guide looked at a bit of a loss.

“Bahorel has found his laughing mistress.”

Enjolras started. “What, still in one piece?”

An awful cold lump settled in the bottom of Grantaire’s stomach, and he did not wait to hear more, but pushed the door open. Bahorel looked up, and grinned, full of all his old cheer and more. “R! Capital R! The most wonderful thing, you won’t believe—I went out after your monster and instead found her standing in the road without a hair out of place! Come, and meet my sweetheart!” He jogged one knee, bouncing the young woman perched upon it, setting her glossy black curls trembling, and she looked at Grantaire too, with wide pretty eyes, long lashed and dark as a night without stars. She had a face shaped like a heart, and skin white as fresh cream, and her red lips curled in a cupid’s bow of a smile, showing a pearly flash of teeth.

Grantaire had never seen her before, and still he knew that face, in spite of how it had shifted.

Too many teeth. Too white. Too sharp.

She looked at him, and _smiled_ , and threw back her lovely head and laughed. It echoed in the room, filling the space, silvery and high and perfect and wrong _,_ andBahorel smiled, and laughed along with her. His waistcoat was a dark mossy green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never written a story like this in my life, and I may not do it again. It scares me too much. But I was not going to go pulling punches--i promised scary and I think (Hope?) that this delivers. (also why it will explain some of my digressions about Bahorel's attire throughout the story heheheheheh evil) :)
> 
> Thanks so much for all your kind comments, and your kudos, and for reading this whole thing! You are all delightful and you have totally inspired me to keep on writing in the future! All I need is a next idea...maybe something less creepy but who knows?Mwahahahahaha!!!
> 
> It is still a bit away yet, but: Happy Hallowe'en!


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